Red Fever

Title Page
Dedication
1. A Mad Mission
2. Danger in the Mist
3. Clever Pirates
4. Survival of the Fittest
5. Hide and Seek
6. The Boat Graveyard
7. A Good Game
8. A Boy and his Dog
9. Jamie McTavish
10. A Crazy World
11. Arrival of the Foot Soldiers
12. A Betrayal
13. Belle to the Rescue
14. Real Heroes
15. The Trail Begins
16. King of the Dogs
17. The World Explodes
18. In the Heat of the Night
19. A New Journey
1. Kidnapped
Copyright

A heavy white mist clung to the world, blurring the edges between sea and sky. Toby crouched low on the front deck of the boat as it sliced slowly through the grey waters. His eyes strained through the murkiness, alert to any danger that may lie ahead. The damp air seeped through his clothes and he shivered with cold but also with fear of what he had to do next. This was a mission Toby might not return from. His dad was mad to even think of it.

“Dad! Whoa! Slow down,” Toby cried. “I think I can see something. About twenty metres ahead.”

“Keep watch for any rubbish!” his dad shouted from the wheelhouse, as he steered round the floating flotsam of plastic drums, bottles and a scum of random litter.
The purr of the boat’s engine fell to a stutter and the boat rolled lazily on the oily swell. As Toby hung as far out as he dared from the bow and peered through the fog, a slight breeze lifted and cleared the path ahead.

“Dad! Look!” Toby gasped. Looming through the whiteness, towering over the boat, the large rusted legs of the oil platform came into view. Toby fell backwards as his eyes followed the height of the legs from sea level up and up until they disappeared into the grey gloom.

“Toby! Get ready!” his dad commanded.

Toby picked himself up and grabbed the rope with shaking hands. He could now hear the ghostly creaking of the giant structure as it sighed and groaned in the surging sea, and he could see the twisted red-brown girders hanging high above his head as the boat bobbed underneath. So this was what an oil platform looked like after it had been left to the ravages of the sea for three years. His dad had worked on one similar to this, but further out into the North Sea.

“Are you ready, Toby?” his dad barked.

“Yep!” Toby replied, leaning out from the bow, the thick heavy rope coiled in his hands, ready to throw it on to anything it would catch on. Some of the diagonal bracing struts had been smashed by storms and dangled uselessly in mangled knots of metal from above. With a grunt Toby threw the looped end of the rope over a broken spar.

Strange to think that he, Toby Tennant, had never even been on such a boat until a year ago. He’d hated sailing. Now, here he was expertly tying one up to an oil platform. Crazy.

“OK, Toby, get going.”

“Yes, Dad.”

“And be quick. There could be pirates in the area!”

Thanks, Dad! That’s all I need — something else to worry about. As if this thing exploding or sinking whilst I’m on it isn’t enough
, thought Toby.

He climbed on to the side of the boat, and readied himself for the leap on to the rusted ladder that swung from the leg of the platform.

“Got the walkie-talkie?” His dad yelled out his last instructions.

Toby sprang like a cat, but just as he leapt a wave hit the side of the boat, swinging it and him away from the platform. With an extra effort he threw himself towards the corroded metal ladder. He didn’t want to land in the freezing, dirty water. He wouldn’t last long.

“Ah!” Toby cried as the force of the jump carried him bang up against the slimy seaweed-draped tower, and he landed heavily on a rung of the ladder.

“Oh!” Red-hot pain seared a path from his hand to his brain as his right hand took the brunt of the landing, caught between the ladder and the tower. The tower’s
patchwork of seaweed hid a coating of razor-sharp barnacles, encrusted on to the metal. Toby’s nylon gloves ripped easily as his hand raked across the jagged shells, tearing a large bloody gash across his knuckles.

A wave of nausea washed over him as, through the fog of pain, he heard his dad shouting something about the wind getting up and to be quick.

Quick
, thought Toby.
Must be quick.
He gritted his teeth and, pushing through the pain, forced himself to place his foot on the next rung of the ladder. The thick soles of his boot slithered forwards then found a grip on the slippery metal. He heaved himself up, using his good hand. As he climbed, the strong pungent smell of seaweed filled his nostrils and the noisy calls of hundreds of seagulls wheeling and diving around him made him feel dizzy.

It took all of Toby’s strength to hoist himself up the twenty metres, placing his feet carefully on each rung to test if it would take his weight. As he removed his foot each time, pieces of rust scraped off to float slowly downwards into the murky space below.

Mustn’t look down. Keep focused on going up; that’s what Dad always says
.

Toby tried to remember the rules of climbing, which his dad had taught him out on the sea cliffs near their home. That all seemed a very long time ago now. That
was before all this — before the red fever had killed his grandparents, his friends, almost everyone he had ever known, and most of the population — before the world had gone mad.

“One elephant, two elephants, three …” Toby tried counting aloud to match the rhythm of his slow ascent. His hand throbbed but he kept going.

He could now see the huge underbelly of the platform appearing from the mist. Ropes and bundles of wires and pipes hung down like giant strands of hair. He felt sick, whether it was from the pain in his hand or the fear which gripped his stomach, he didn’t know.

Stop being such a baby,
he told himself.
Get on with it.

At last he could see an opening above. The next step up was on to solid metal steps and then up on to the top deck. There were even more seagulls nesting on the upper scaffolding. They were huge beasts, squawking and screaming at each other, squabbling over bits of litter. A couple of them spotted Toby and, stretching out their huge white wings, dive-bombed him with open beaks.

“Get lost, you morons!” he shouted, batting out at them with his good hand.

Toby ran along a walkway towards what looked like the entrance doors to the main block. He tried not to look through the metal grid floor to down below, where the angry sea could be glimpsed through the swirling mist.

The doors to the block were swinging gently, half off their hinges, creaking eerily in the salty breeze. He bashed through them, kicking aside the mounds of plastic bottles, papers and soggy cardboard boxes that the wind had blown in.

“What a stink!” Toby cried out, covering his nose with his cagoule sleeve. The ripe stench of rotting matter hit him as he pushed his way along the corridor.

Toby was aware of his heart pumping fit to burst. He felt his nerves, raw and on edge. He didn’t know what he was going to find. Dead bodies? Skeletons picked clean by the seagulls? He scanned each room quickly as he passed it, but the place was bare apart from litter.

Toby felt uneasy, as if someone was watching him. He wanted to run and run so fast that his legs would skip over the waves and carry him home, to his real home. He wanted to wake up in his bed tucked under the eaves in his parents’ cottage and find that this had all been a bad dream: that his little sister was well again and that his mum was alive.

GET A GRIP! Look! Keep looking! It’s got to be here somewhere.

His dad had told him where the muster points would be for an emergency, where he would find a diagram and the location of the medical bay. But as panic started to take hold of him, his dad’s plan flew from Toby’s head.
He just wanted to find the medical bay —
now
. He tried to push through large double doors but the damp sea air had warped them and they were stuck shut. He took a jump at them and kicked out hard with his boots.

BANG!
The doors burst open with a noise that echoed through the whole empty building. Toby stopped and listened. Was he imagining things or could he hear someone singing? Was this what happened to mariners in the old days? They went mad hearing noises and thought mermaids were singing to them?

“Keep moving!” he shouted out. This was madness. This whole idea was crazy. How could his dad do this to him? How desperate must his dad have to be to send his only son on to a deserted oil platform?

But Toby knew the answer. They
were
desperate. If they didn’t find help for Sylvie soon, it could be too late.

The canteen was scattered with broken tables and chairs. At the back of the large room Toby could see the kitchens. Someone had broken all the plates and cups and saucers. The floor was covered in jagged shards of crockery.

He turned and pushed his way on down another corridor, kicking through mounds of printed papers with diagrams and pictures — manuals for the daily workings of the platform. Then he saw the white door with a green cross on it. Here was the medical bay. He pushed hard at the door. It swung open, but inside the room was empty.
Everything had been taken.

“No! No! NO!” cried Toby. He felt a hot rush of tears spring to his eyes and the knot of panic rose further in his throat. Someone had been here. Someone had beaten them to it. The cupboards had been torn from the walls and empty broken bottles littered the floor. Packets of Gamgee and lint dressings lay torn and discarded on the plastic chairs that sat lonely and unwanted in the large white room. He rushed to the medical cabinets with shattered glass doors but they were empty. All the medicines had been taken.

Toby stopped suddenly and listened. What was that? Was he imagining noises again? But as he stilled his breathing, he could just make out the faint boom of a foghorn coming from somewhere far below.

“Dad!” Toby cried and, turning on his heels, started to run back, stumbling over the piles of rubbish. But he couldn’t remember the way he had come. All the corridors looked the same; every door led to another door that looked just the same as the last one. Toby felt the panic rising into his mouth now, threatening to choke him.

Think! Think! Be logical — there must be a main corridor with others leading off it. Just need to concentrate. Need to slow my breathing. Breathe — one elephant, two elephants …

As he came round a corner Toby recognised the
double doors of the canteen.

Not far now. Keep breathing!

He could still hear the distant
boom, boom
of the boat’s foghorn sounding out into the mist below. There must be something wrong. What had his dad said about an emergency? Ah, the walkie-talkie!

Toby pulled it out of his cagoule pocket and frantically jabbed at the ON button. He put the walkie-talkie to his mouth.

“Dad! DAD!” he shouted into it. “What’s happening?”

“Toby! Get back here now! Get back, Toby! NOW!” his dad screamed down the line.

Toby staggered down the main corridor and out into the cold, clammy air. He ran down the walkway and lowered himself on to the ladder. The seagulls screeched and screamed abuse at him, angry at this invader in their territory. Slipping and sliding, he climbed down the ladder as fast as he could. He tried not to think of the pain in his hand or the height of the ladder above the cold North Sea. As he descended he caught glimpses of the bobbing boat below and of his dad, who stood on deck waving frantically to him.

“Toby! Hurry!” he screamed.

What did his dad think he was doing? Toby felt a stab of anger at his father. He was trying his hardest. Somehow it was never enough.

“Jump!” yelled his dad, as Toby got near the bottom of the ladder.

It’s all right for you
, thought Toby.
I’m the one hanging out over the sea.

He jumped, throwing himself towards the boat deck. But as he came over the side of the boat, his foot trailed and caught on the lip of the bow. With a heavy thud he landed face down on the hard wooden deck.

“Ah!” he cried as his sore hand hit something solid.

“Shush!” His dad motioned him to be quiet. Toby strained to listen. All he could hear was the distant calling of the angry gulls, and the rhythmic slap of water on the side of the boat. He sat up and rubbed his sore knees.

Then, through the mist, he heard it: the unmistakable deep throb of an engine. It was no little fishing boat such as the
Lucky Lady
. It was a ship of some size and it was heading their way.

His dad returned to the wheelhouse, and pointed to the rope that still held them to the platform leg. Toby knew what to do.

Despite every muscle and sinew in his body aching and calling out for rest, he picked himself up. He took a long hooked pole from its bracket and, leaning over the bow, unhooked the rope from the spar. The wind was getting up and it took him a few efforts as the boat danced and sidled on the rising swell. At last he had the
rope coiled and stowed back in the boat.

His dad reversed the boat from under the gigantic towers of the platform, and swung it away from the noise of the approaching ship.

Toby limped into the wheelhouse to join his dad.

“How big do you think it is?” he asked him.

“Difficult to tell in these conditions. The fog can amplify sounds. Certainly bigger than the
Lucky Lady
here,” replied his dad.

The Lucky Lady? Huh!
thought Toby.
We’ve had nothing but bad luck since we got her. Pity we can’t change her name
. But his dad had said it was considered unlucky amongst the fisher folk to change the name of a boat.

His father slid the throttle handle forward and the boat picked up speed. “We need to get out of here,” he said quietly, staring ahead.

“But Dad! It might not be pirates!” exclaimed Toby. “It might be good people, people who can help us. They might have medicine for Sylvie.”

“It’s not worth the risk, Toby,” replied his dad.

Toby noticed his father’s knuckles were white with clenching the steering wheel of the boat. His dad opened up the throttle some more. The
Lucky Lady’
s bow lifted as she picked up speed.

“Once they spot us on their radar we’re a sitting duck. They’ll have an inflatable launched and reach us in
minutes. And that will be the end of us.”

“You don’t know that! You can’t run away from everybody we meet. At this rate we’ll spend the rest of our lives on our own,” cried Toby.

“Look, I’m sorry Tobes, but I just can’t take the risk,” said his dad. “Especially after what happened the last time we met another boat. That really scared me — that guy would have robbed us
and
thrown us all overboard if I hadn’t forced him back into his own boat.”

“That guy was a psycho …” muttered Toby.

“And what’s to say the guys in this ship aren’t?” his dad replied. “We don’t know what’s out there, Toby. We don’t know what’s happened to the rest of the world. It could be in an even bigger mess than Scotland. Everyone is desperate now. Man is a selfish creature; do you think whoever they are would care that we have a sick child on board? Do you think they wouldn’t take our fuel, our food and everything we’ve got if it would make their lives a little easier?” asked his dad.

Toby hadn’t heard his dad say so much for ages, not since his mum had died. Usually he just barked orders at Toby, though sometimes at night when Toby lay in his tiny bunk bed in the stern, he could hear his dad singing a lullaby to Sylvie. It was one his mum had made up to sing to them both when they were babies.
Go to sleepy, little baby, go to slee-ee-py-byes
…

Toby suddenly felt overcome with exhaustion. His body was crying out for sleep. He could see that there was no point in arguing with his dad — maybe he was right anyway.

“I’ll go and check on Sylvie,” he said quietly.

“Yep, you do that, Toby,” his dad replied, without looking at him.

Toby paused, thinking that maybe his dad would ask him if he was OK after his disastrous mission.

“Oh, by the way,” said Toby. “There was nothing left in the medical bay.”

“Yeah, I’d already realised that,” said his father.

“Somebody had been there and cleared the whole place out,” Toby added.

“Yeah, well, even more reason for getting the hell out of here, in that case,” remarked his dad.

“Yeah,” sighed Toby.

Neither of them dared to acknowledge what this might mean for Sylvie.

Toby nursed his sore hand. He’d wrapped a dirty hankie round it but now the blood was beginning to ooze out. His dad hadn’t noticed.

Toby left the wheelhouse and swung down the steps to the deck. Behind the wheelhouse was the deckhouse where they lived. Sylvie thought it looked cute with its shiny, varnished timber and smartly painted portholes in
the sides. Toby heaved open the heavy steel door by the stiff awkward levers that sealed it tightly closed, making it watertight in a storm.

He wearily hung up his cagoule and pushed his way past the heaps of stuff stored in the narrow, cramped hallway. There were oilskins, bags of coal and logs for the stove, packs of loo paper, stacks of tinned soup and tuna, and a pile of wellies. He shuffled his feet out of his boots and into some dry trainers.

Inside the cabin hung the greasy smell of the previous day’s dinner of fried corned beef and beans. A sharp pang in his stomach reminded Toby that that had been the last meal he’d eaten. There hadn’t been time for breakfast that morning and, anyway, he would have been too nervous to eat it. He wondered if Sylvie had managed to eat anything that day.

Toby sighed as he picked up a dirty plastic tumbler from the table in the centre of the cabin, and threw it into the sink where the washing-up sat in slimy water. He glanced at the breadcrumbs and bean juice smeared across the table.

More chores to do. And all I want to do is sleep.

He picked up a soggy dishcloth and mopped
half-heartedly
at the sticky rings from beakers of juice. His dad would be cross if the table wasn’t kept clean, as it was where he laid out his maps to plot their routes.

Toby smiled at the colourful ribbons Sylvie had tied to the brass rod which had been fitted round the table’s edge to stop things sliding off it in a storm. When she felt well she was always making things out of the scraps of material Toby scrounged for her. He’d found the ribbons amongst some of his mum’s belongings, after the accident.

Either side of the table were two bunk beds: one for his dad and one for Sylvie. Toby was thankful he didn’t have to share the cramped space with the two of them. He liked the privacy of his own den, tucked cosily in the stern of the boat. It was the one place he could get away from this world of horror and madness.

“Hiya,” he whispered into the pile of duvets and bedspreads that were heaped on top of Sylvie’s bunk. A face appeared, with half-closed eyes wrinkling up at him.

“Tobes?” uttered a tiny sleepy voice.

“Who do you think it is? The Little Mermaid?” chuckled Toby.

More of Sylvie appeared: a mop of tousled blonde hair and a skinny white arm.

Too skinny,
thought Toby.
She’s wasting away in front of us.

“I loved that film,” said Sylvie, pushing herself up in the bed.

“The Little Mermaid?”
asked Toby. “Yuk! That’s for babies!” He laughed, pulling a strand of sticky blonde
hair from in front of her eyes.

“Toby?” asked Sylvie. “Do you think we’ll ever see that film again?”

“No, thank God!” replied Toby. “Now, if you want to watch a really good film, how about
Transformers Two.
That was brill!”

“But will we ever see a film again?”

Toby took Sylvie’s small pale hand in his gnarled brown one.

“I honestly don’t know, Sylvie,” he said. “I just don’t know what’s going to happen. But don’t you worry — Dad and I are on to it.”

“Toby, what have you done to your hand?” gasped Sylvie. Toby had been hiding his injured hand behind him but Sylvie had spotted the blood-soaked hankie wrapped around it.

“It’s nothing.” Toby tried to shrug it off.

“Let me look,” she asked.

“No! Don’t make a fuss; it’ll be fine,” said Toby, pulling away his hand as she tried to inspect it.

“You should clean it before Dad sees it. You know what he’s like about getting bugs and things.”

“Yeah, yeah. Have you been asleep all morning?” he asked.

“Yes, I must’ve been,” replied Sylvie, yawning. “Why are we moving so fast now?”

“Oh, no reason. Dad’s in a hurry as usual, I suppose,” replied Toby.

“Well, I’m still tired. I’m going to go back to sleep,” she said. “Wake me up if you need me.”

“Yep, I’ll do that,” said Toby, knowing that he wouldn’t. There was nothing Sylvie could do any more to help him and his dad run the boat. She was weak as a kitten and spent most of the time sleeping.

Sylvie had been ill since their mum died. At first they’d thought she just had an infection, and the antibiotics they had stored at home seemed to be helping. But they’d run out. And now Sylvie was showing symptoms that they recognised all too well: a raging temperature, and a prickly red rash — all signs of the deadly red fever. Neither Toby nor his father had dared to speak their fears out loud.

Toby remembered Sylvie playing on the beach below the cottage at home. She liked to collect pebbles, especially the smooth white ones. She would caress them in her small grubby brown hands for hours, washing them in rock pools then drying them on a towel. Later she would carry them carefully, like treasure, up the rocky path to the back door. There, she would grade them into jam jars according to their size. Big ones in one jar. Little ones in another.

Toby preferred shells; they were more interesting. There were lots of different shapes and sizes and each
one had a different pattern on its back. He would collect them by the carrier bag full and take them home to his mum. She loved shells too and would decorate the stone steps in the garden with them. She liked the fact that they weren’t washed and still had sand and bits of sedge stuck to them. Toby remembered her smiling while she arranged the shells in patterns. He remembered that smile so well …

Stop it!
Toby told himself. That train of thought was bad. It led to a dark place, a place he didn’t want to go.

Have to think of something else quick,
he thought.
Pirates, yes, the pirates! I’d better go and see what’s happening.

With an effort, Toby pulled himself together and, after tucking Sylvie’s blankets and covers around her, left the cabin.