The Moon Stealers and The Children of the Light (18 page)

A firm arm suddenly pushed against Joe’s chest holding
him back from the drop in front of them. Edgar had responded immediately to Joe's
call, but suddenly Edgar’s hand began to shake. Joe could feel it against his
chest. A look of worry flashed across Edgar’s face. He knew he didn’t have the
strength in his hand to keep Joe safe for long.

‘Grab a rock!’ he shouted desperately. ‘Anything!’

Joe did as he was told and clung desperately to a
projecting rock while his feet scrambled desperately to find a solid surface.

Edgar withdrew his hand. He knew he was getting weaker
all of the time.

A movement from the ledge above them caught his eye.
Clinging to the rock face was a black leathery shadow of a Moon Stealer, camouflaged
against the dark rocks. Its red hole of a mouth stretched open releasing a low
rasping breath and it leapt off the mountain. Awkwardly, Edgar managed to draw
his sword with his left hand as the creatures hooked feet sunk into the flesh
around the Knight’s shoulders, plucking him from the ledge and plummeted down
the side of the mountain together. With a couple of strong beats from the
creature's wings, it managed to control the fall and lift itself once more back
into the sky, riding the currents of air that gusted up the side of the mountain,
ready to take its prey somewhere to feast on. The evening sky temporarily lit
up in white light as Sir Edgar Gorlois, Duke of Tintagel, plunged Ethera into
the body of the Moon Stealer that carried him.

The creature no longer beat its wings.

Together they tumbled down the side of the mountain,
dislodging loose pieces of rock as they fell, breaking the white foaming water
that cascaded towards the lake until they landed in a lifeless, disjointed
tangle at the bottom.

The dock at
Yarmouth
was once again a hive of activity. The group that had
been ferried over from the mainland were the last to be taken from the holding
room, back through the labyrinth of corridors and out to the dockside. The
warehouse that had been loaded the previous afternoon was now being unloaded.
Men lifted boxes into the back of lorries whilst others manoeuvred some of the
vehicles out, including Rhys’s motorbike and lined them up ready to be taken
away.

The dockworkers shouted to each other, their voices
carried on the breeze that blew off the
Solent
.

‘Everyone into the back of the lorry,’ ordered the
guard that had escorted them on and off the ferry the previous day.

The shallow back panel of the lorry was pulled down
and left to loosely swing against the rear frame. A ladder was hooked over the
ledge and each survivor took it in turn climbing into the back of the lorry and
finding a seat along one of the sides. The lorry reminded Rhys of one he had
seen in a military film many years ago, one the army would transport its troops
in. Once everyone was in, the back flap was lifted up and bolts slid across to
hold it in place once again. Even with the panel up at least half of the rear
was open and exposed. Rhys watched with interest as the guards packed as much
as they could into every vehicle ready to transport it to Osborne House. After
a few minutes of waiting, half of the dockworkers climbed into the vehicles
ready for the journey whilst the other half remained to man the dock. The
engine of the lorry rattled into life, shaking the metal sides and vibrating
the wooden benches they sat on, and it began to drive away from
Yarmouth
.

The ride along the north coast was slow and
uncomfortable. There was very little conversation between the survivors, some
sobbed quietly into their hands, whilst others stared vacantly at the pattern
of rust on the opposite side of the lorry.

Rhys pulled the photograph of Steffan out of his
pocket. By now he had looked at the photo so much that he thought he had
memorised every line on his son's face.

‘Who’s that?’ Will quietly asked Rhys.

‘My son. I haven’t seen him for twenty years. I’ve
come to the
Isle of Wight
to find him.’

‘What if he’s not here?’

‘I will head back to the mainland. There is somewhere
else to look, a community in Halstead in
Kent
.’

‘I have a feeling that everyone that comes to this
island is expected to stay.’

Rhys nodded. He had also thought that travelling back
to the mainland might not be as easy as it had been coming.

‘What did you do before all of this?’ Rhys asked,
trying to make conversation.

‘I was an engineer. Or at least I was going to be. I
had a job offer from a company in
India
. My girlfriend was going to come with me, she was
going to teach English while I worked. It was only for a year, but it would
give us chance to save enough money to buy a house when we returned.’

‘I have no doubt that your skills will be in great demand
at Osborne House.’

The lorry rumbled on, along narrow roads with fields
on one side and a wide view of the
Solent
on the other. They passed occasional houses that
stood empty and silent, whilst abandoned cars lined the route, their rear ends
raised in salute due to their front lying sunken in the roadside ditch. Moss
and algae had already begun to grow in the joints between the metal panels
where water had collected. Scratches and dents to the body work were turning an
orangey red colour as rust rapidly developed in the salty air that blew off the
sea.

Their route took them inland and quite quickly they lost
sight of the
Solent
on the horizon.

Time was always something every survivor was conscious
of. Everyone knew that once the sun began to drop or the cloud cover increased,
the creatures would be out once more to begin hunting. And no one wanted to be
abandoned or stranded without cover at night.

The lorry continued to bump along the road at a steady
speed. It was uncomfortable in the back, but they would all rather reach their
destination as soon as possible.

They drove through a town then turned northward back towards
the coast and into countryside once more. The convoy stopped briefly at a
roundabout. A guard poked his head round the back of the lorry and looked in at
the new batch of survivors. Whatever he was or wasn’t looking for, he seemed
satisfied and slapped the metal side of the lorry with the palm of his hand
indicating that it could continue on its journey. The driver of the lorry
revved his engine and the lorry began to crawl forward once again. Eventually
the lorry slowed down with a loud squeal of the brakes then turned into a
narrow road that, from the back of the vehicle, looked like a private estate.
The narrow road, which was bordered on both sides by a neatly clipped hedge,
wound between trees and passed signs for a car park and visitor's centre.
Through the trees Rhys could see the outline of people standing in fields
working on the land some distance away. They drove up alongside a large cream
coloured building then turned into a courtyard.

The engine stopped and the lorry rattled to a
standstill.

The back was immediately unlatched and pulled down so
that everyone could get out. The newcomers now stood within a magnificent
courtyard surrounded by cream stone walls that shone in the daylight. In the
centre of one of the walls was a grand entrance. Some of the guards had already
begun carrying boxes from the vehicles, between the smooth stone entrance
pillars and through a dark wood door.

'Come with me,' the guard instructed.

Obediently, they all followed the guard into an
elaborate hall and an adjoining room. More detailed information was taken from
each survivor and documented inside a thick log book before they were allocated
a sector of the community to work in. As they were sorted they were placed in
groups and told to stand in different corners of the room, none of them quite
understanding what was happening.

Rhys had been placed in the Health sector, together
with two nurses and a carer. He sat down on the carpet and waited, carefully
looking at the faces of every new guard that entered the room, to see if they
looked like Steffan. He decided that, for now, he would follow the rest of the
survivors and see what happened. Once he was part of the community he should be
able to search the rest of Osborne House for any sign of his son. Those hopes
were quickly extinguished when two other guards entered the room with a box
full of rusty ankle restraints.

Once everyone had been processed, one of the guards
stood in the centre of the room and made an announcement. 'For your own safety
you will be paired with another survivor from your group,' he shouted to
everyone in the room. 'You must work together, eat together and sleep together.
That way, no one will wander off. For your protection there will always be
armed guards with your groups at all times, especially if you leave the safety
of the house to work on the land or transfer to another building.'

Two of the guards approached a pair of female
survivors in the group opposite Rhys. The women backed away nervously, but the
wall of the room prevented them from going too far. One of the guards roughly
grabbed the ankle of one and began fastening a clamp around it. A short length
of chain trailed off the clamp to another, which was secured around the second
woman's ankle.

They then moved onto a pair of men that sat on the
floor in the same group.

'I'm not going to be chained,' said one of them
defiantly.

'House rules, I'm afraid,' replied the guard, as if
that was sufficient excuse.

'I don't care if it's your rules; I'm not going to be
chained like some sort of prisoner.'

The second guard stepped forward. He held a gun in his
hands then swung it down between the man's neck and shoulder, knocking him to
the ground. The other guard quickly clamped an ankle restraint on whilst the
man was vulnerable and in pain. The guard had demonstrated that resistance
would only be met with violence and it was in their interest to comply with the
rules. There was no other way to describe the situation they were in - they
were prisoners and slaves to the community.

No one else resisted the restraints.

The silence inside the room was suddenly broken by the
sound of a loud hollow horn that rang outside.

'They've called the workers back to the house,' said
one of the guards to another. 'It's getting earlier every day.'

Once each of the survivors had been paired they were
led down a narrow staircase and into a basement. It took concentration and
coordination for them to work out how to walk in unison with the chains on,
otherwise they would stumble forward.

Inside the basement they were placed in chairs at a
table. Within minutes of hearing the horn, other survivors were led into the
basement by their guards who automatically grabbed a bowl of food and sat at a
separate table keeping a clear division between the workers and the management.
The basement quickly began to fill up with more people.

One of the last groups to come down the stairs seemed
different. Rhys sensed something about them. Instead of the despair and sadness
that seemed to radiate from the other survivors, this last group still held
their heads down, but there was a confidence in the way they walked and
strength in the way they held themselves. The four guards that led them into
the basement stood in the centre looking around at their surroundings.

Rhys glanced across to a group of other survivors that
were muttering excitedly. For the first time he saw a faint glimmer of a smile
on a survivor's face. He looked back to the guards in the centre of the room
and smiled to himself.

A loud siren echoed through the afternoon air like the
mating call of a male deer but amplified ten times louder. It was the signal
that told every guard to return the survivors back to the house before the
creatures came out to play.

Steven was standing beneath the shadow of the garden
porch, hidden from view but watching similar groups of chained people emerging
from different parts of the surrounding countryside and entering the house
through a small entrance to the right of the courtyard.

'The number of guards depends on the size of the group
they are allocated to watch over,' Steven whispered to Georgia who had just
appeared at his elbow.

'How many guards do you think there are altogether?'

'I'm not sure, there could be many more inside the
house watching over the workers there. But, from what I've seen, there are
about five survivors to each guard. Given the right incentive and motivation we
should easily be able to take the house.'

'I hope so.'
Georgia
placed her hand gently on Steven's arm. 'Have you
seen any sign of Annie?'

Steven turned to face
Georgia
. 'No,' he said shaking his head. 'Maybe she's working
on a job inside the house?'

They heard the crunch of gravel behind them and turned
to see Tracker approaching. There was a noticeable limp from his leg wound but
he didn’t appear to notice it.

'We're ready,' he said.

Steven
,
Georgia
and Tracker put on the jackets they had taken from
the captured guards, together with baseball caps.
Georgia
stuffed her hair beneath the cap to look more
masculine and tucked her injured arm inside a pocket. They had left the guards
tied up inside the workshop and made sure all the windows and doors were
locked. If the guards hadn’t been given the antibiotics, they would be too
terrified to leave the workshop during the night with the creatures prowling
around, but they also needed to prevent them coming into the house until they
had it under control.

Tracker led the survivors out through the porch and
onto a path that would take them towards Osborne House. Each survivor
obediently filed out with their heads cast down and their ankles chained
together once again. They each carried their gardening equipment with them and
slowly trudged along the slope towards the house.
Steven
,
Georgia
, and one of the other survivors, pretended to guard
the line and motivate them forward.

Tracker watched another group of survivors emerge from
a path that led back towards their car. Ahead of him was the front of the house
with a tower and grand entrance overlooking a courtyard with a raised bed of
plants in the centre. But, this was not where the other group was heading.
Instead they were being led towards a smaller door immediately to the right of
the courtyard. The lead guard walked up a couple of steps between two stone
carved boars and pushed the door open. Tracker briefly caught a glance of a
corridor beyond, as well as a man with a gun slung over his shoulder and a clip
board in his hand. Taking a small precaution just in case it was the old man
that had admitted them into the Bank of England, Tracker pulled the peak of his
cap further over his forehead to shield his eyes. Fortunately over the previous
days a blonde growth of hair had begun to cover his cheeks and chin, making him
appear different.

The repetitive clanking of chains slowed as the line
of survivors automatically merged into a single line ready to enter the house.
So far all of the survivors had played their part perfectly. No one had aroused
suspicion, acting like they had done on previous days under the suppression of
Coldred's community. The only difference this time was that their ankle clamps
were being held together with nothing more than small sticks that could be
opened when the time was right.

Several of the survivors looked up nervously, glancing
between Tracker, Steven and Georgia. They all knew that once they were inside
the house they would have to go through with the plan. If it failed, escape
would be difficult, or worse, they could be left as food for the creatures as
punishment.

Tracker walked up the steps and pushed his weight
against the door. It swung into a long corridor that had arched glass windows
along the left side looking out into the courtyard. The long strip of carpet
that had covered the corridor had been rolled up and was stacked in stages
along one side, successfully merging amongst the numerous marble pillars and
pure white statues that lined the way. The floor was a mosaic of tiles, far
more hard wearing for workers to walk along than the carpet. The corridor was
broken up by several white arches with doors to the right leading through to
other rooms and sections of the house, but everyone else seemed to be heading
straight down the corridor and turning left at the end.

'Afternoon,' Tracker casually said to the guard at the
door. He purposely tried to avoid eye contact, hoping that the guard wouldn’t
recognise him, or realise that he was not a guard he had seen before.

'Which section?' the guard asked.

'Walled garden.'

'They can't bring in their tools,' said the guard
looking at the survivors lined up behind Tracker with the long handles of hoes
and rakes sticking up, whilst others leaned on spades and forks.'

Tracker had anticipated that there may be some
difficulty getting the gardening equipment into the house, but for their plan
to work, the survivors would need weapons.

'They've been ordered to sharpen and maintain them
over night.'

'I wasn’t informed this.'

'That doesn't surprise me,' bluffed Tracker, 'I was
only told this morning by Kilmartin as I took them across the grass.'

'This morning?'

Tracker quickly realised his mistake. He had forgotten
that the creatures didn’t go into hiding until mid day when the sun was at its
strongest. 'I meant this afternoon. I made sure they brushed all the mud of
their equipment before bringing it to the house, so there won't be a problem. Considering
the amount of work they've been doing lately, it's no wonder they are getting
blunt. If they can't sharpen them, it makes the work slower and less
productive. Orders were to increase productivity. The amount of food is
starting to decrease, fresh food and vegetables are needed as soon as
possible.'

'OK, take them into the Pavilion,' the guard
reluctantly said.

Tracker turned to the survivor immediately behind him.

'Move through,' he shouted.

The first survivor stepped into the corridor closely
followed by the colleague he was chained to. Tracker stood aside letting a few
of them begin walking down the corridor, before falling in alongside them.

As they walked along the corridor Tracker slipped the
key to the ankle chains into the pocket of the nearest survivor.

'The key to the chains,' he whispered. 'You know what
to do.'

The survivor gave a shallow nod, but didn’t dare raise
his head in case one of the house guards was watching.

They all moved slowly through the door and into the
house. Once they were inside the door closed with a bang that echoed down the
empty corridor to the head of the line.

Towards the end of the corridor was a turning on the
left which the other survivors had followed, however before he turned Tracker
noticed a glass panelled door on the right through which he could hear the
crackle of music that sounded like it was being played on an old gramophone
record player. The tunes were ones he recognised from the Second World War;
American Big Band and George Formby.

The corridor turned to the left and through two
archways. Just after the second arch there was a small door that opened into a
dull undecorated gap with stairs heading up as well as down. Tracker walked
just behind two of the survivors so that they could show him where to go. For a
pair of survivors who were chained together, managing to manoeuvre down the
steps towards the basement was difficult. Tracker could hear a muted chatter
coming from the grey rooms below. At the bottom of the stairs the narrow
passage connected to a series of rooms that were all linked by open doors.
Tracker could see some of the rooms had mattresses lined up along the walls,
whilst others had basic metal framed bunk beds.

As soon as they had descended the stairs it felt like
there was a change in the atmosphere. The survivors began to lift their heads
and show a confidence that they had not had above ground. Here, in the
basement, the survivors were in their own world. Guards kept themselves to a
side room, eating separately from the others, but took it in turns strolling
amongst the survivors checking that everyone was being kept in order.

The line of survivors that Tracker was leading
automatically dispersed and merged into the thick group of others that had
returned to the house for their evening meal. The level of chatter began to
increase. Tracker hoped that the survivors from the walled garden were
spreading the word and gaining support for an uprising. He stood with
Steven
,
Georgia
and the other fake guard in the centre of the room,
noticing the occasional nervous glance towards him by some of the other
survivors that confirmed the plan was being spread. The tools the group had
brought with them from the garden appeared to have discreetly vanished, hidden
in dark corners ready to be retrieved when needed.

'Here,' said one of the guards that was walking around
the room. He pushed a bowl of rice mixed with a brown gravy into Tracker's
hands. 'I'd grab some quickly if I were you. Johnson's already on his second
bowl.'

'What about the workers?'

'Them?' he pointed to the survivors gathering and
muttering together. 'They'll get theirs as soon as we've finished. If Johnson
leaves anything.' The guard laughed and went to sit down next to a large man
shovelling the rice mixture into his mouth as if he was in a race.

The other three grabbed a bowl from a table and went
to sit down with the other guards. All four of them separated and sat at
different sections of the table.

A bell rang signalling the other survivors could
approach the food distribution table. They all took a small cereal bowl and a
single ladle of food, half the portion the guards had eaten, despite them doing
more of the work during the day.

Tracker glanced across to the survivors who all began
to quickly eat what little food they had. He recognised some of the faces from
the garden. When they looked up and caught his eye they nodded briefly,
signalling support for the plan. One of the guards got up from the table and
went to patrol amongst the survivors. Occasionally he slapped one of them
across the back of their head for eating too loudly or splashing gravy on his
boots, which were already dirty from use. Satisfied that the survivors were
behaving in the proper manner, he returned to the guard's table and joked with
his neighbour.

The time ticked on.

The shadows inside the basement began to get longer
and darker until everyone seemed to be nothing more than a grey shadow of their
daytime selves. The screams of creatures outside the thick walls of the house
began for the night.