Blood on the Motorway, #1

by Paul Stephenson

  * * * * *

  The house filled with noise, rousing her from sleep. Confusion gripped her as she groped around, eyes adjusting to the orange-tinged darkness. The curtains seemed to be glowing, and the noise coming from outside was disorientating. It took a split second for everything to come back to her.

  Is this what it's going to be like every time I wake up from now on?

  She got to her feet, ignoring the shot of pain that ran up her leg. She went to the window and pulled back the curtain.

  My canary is on fire.

  The train station was completely alight now. She didn't have long. A scream rang out, somewhere on her own street. A group of people were working their way down from one end to another, hell-bent on looting whatever they could before the fire claimed the area. They kicked in the first set of doors and two of them rushed in.

  There were at least five of them, Jen saw from the light of the fires. Three men, two women. One man stood out as some kind of ringleader, stood in the centre of the road barking orders. He was huge, his top barely covering his massive belly.

  Jen's heart thumped hard in her chest. Her stomach knotted in fear. She needed to get out before they came to her door. She didn't know how they'd react to finding her, but she sure as hell wasn't about to find out. Her one hope was to go out the back.

  There was no time to grab anything. She ran to the kitchen and snatched a kitchen knife and tucked it into her belt.

  She could hear voices outside her door now, rough and harsh.

  She fumbled with the back door key with trembling hands. At the other end of the house someone was trying the front door handle, then kicking the door. The key in her hand turned and she was out. The front door splintered behind her. She hoped they wouldn't see her scaling the back wall. No time to work the garage door now.

  The heat of the fire hit her like she'd walked into a solid barrier. Beyond the brickwork the houses were aflame, fire engulfing everything, spitting little pieces of orange shrapnel all around. It robbed the air and she struggled to breathe.

  She looked behind her. There was no choice. Broken glass covered the top of the wall, embedded in cement, but she managed to scramble to her feet without cutting herself and launched herself into the alleyway below. She landed on the hot tarmac of the passage that now separated her from some fresh hell. She looked around. She could hear voices in her home, but she doubted they'd follow her out here, even if they had seen her.

  To her right was nothing but heat haze and smoke. To her left, she could make out houses not yet burning, but the fire seemed to be spreading that way faster than she could run.

  'Oh, give me a fucking break!' she shouted.

  She started to run. The knife in her belt dug into her thigh, so she pulled it out and dropped it, then sped past the flames with all the energy she could muster, hoping against hope she hadn't heard someone leaping over the back gate behind her.

  Chapter Six

  Board up the House

  Burnett grasped at the floor in front of him, his hand finding nothing but worn linoleum. He fought against the ache in his bones to push himself up, and prised his eyes open.

  He blinked, but it did nothing to remove the corpses that lay everywhere. His head swam at the sight of them. Each one wore the same vacant expression. Blood smeared around the nose and mouth. There was no sign of struggle; most of them must have dropped where they stood.

  The station house was dark and silent. He forced himself up and stumbled through the corridors, taking care not to step on his old colleagues. Anger overwhelmed his fear. Whoever that man was, he must have done this. Some kind of gas, perhaps, but why had Burnett survived while his other colleagues hadn't?

  Burnett pictured the grin on the bastard's face as he had turned away – those self-satisfied eyes. He had to get out. He pushed his way through the heavy doors that separated the reception from the station house. Jade's body lay on the floor behind the desk.

  'Aww, fuck.' In the absence of any other sound, his voice echoed around the small room. He went over to her body and put his hand on her shoulder. He checked her pulse, to be sure. 'Sorry, lass,' he said, turned away and strode out though the heavy blue door.

  The thrilling first inhalation of fresh air blinded Burnett at first to the bodies. They dotted the once idyllic streets of this market town, like some hideous performance art. It took a few moments to take it in, from the dead bodies laid where they had fallen, to the upturned car with its attendant streak of dark blood, to the burnt out houses that marked the end of an adjacent street, still smouldering in the bright morning sun.

  He fell to the pavement and gasped for air, his body rebelling against the information his brain gave it. He pulled out his mobile phone, but it was nothing more than a lifeless black mirror. He headed back inside and found a radio console. He tried scanning the frequencies but the machine was dead. He picked up a microphone and hammered the buttons anyway.

  'Hello? Anyone?' he said. Nothing but silence. Nothing worked.

  He went through into the station house. It was dark; the little light there was came from two windows at the far end. The man who did this might still be here. His flesh crawled at the thought.

  'Hello?' he called again, louder now.

  Silence.

  From somewhere inside the station house, a creak. Burnett froze. It sounded like it might have come from above him, but he couldn't be sure. The smell of death was already in the air, so he found a dish rag and tied it round his face, for all the good it did. Now all he could smell was mildew. He went to the booking board, and tried to find the booking slip for his man, but found they had all been burnt. He found one that could have been his, but he couldn't be sure. All that remained was the name of the arresting officer, one PC Tana. He didn't know the name.

  Burnett looked round, wondering which of these poor dead souls was Tana.

  Maybe if he could find the dead officer, he could find their notebook, get some more details. But he didn't much fancy rifling through every corpse in the station. Christ, who was to say they were even still in the building?

  Another sound rang out, a distant floorboard creak. It definitely came from upstairs. He made his way to the stairwell. As he moved up the steps he heard the sound of movement again. His heart leapt into his mouth and it occurred to him he didn't have a weapon. He searched himself for anything to use, but he wasn't carrying so much as a pen.

  He opened the door. The large room was much darker than downstairs, but he could still see the bodies, dozens of them.

  'Hello?' a voice called out.

  'Hello?' Burnett replied.

  'Who's there?'

  'DI Burnett.'

  'Oh thank fuck for that,' the voice said. Burnett couldn't work out where in the gloom it came from, but the voice sounded out of place here. He tried to place the accent but couldn't.

  'And you are?'

  'Oh, sorry, sir, it's Tony. Tony Tana.'

  Burnett couldn't help but let out a chuckle.

  'Of course you are,' he murmured to himself. 'Where are you, Officer?' he called out.

  'Over here,' came the reply. 'I'm a bit stuck.'

  Burnett made his way over, tripping on a few bodies as he went, one of which made a dull crack that turned his stomach.

  'Over here,' the voice came again, closer now. Burnett could make out a mass on the floor that seemed to be the source of it. He fished around in his pocket for a lighter, held it in front of him and clicked, his last thought before he did so that he had walked straight into a trap. Instead what he saw was a gruesomely absurd scene.

  'Hi,' said PC Tana. His embarrassed grin poked out from underneath three bodies that had fallen on top of him, pinning him to the floor.

  'Hi,' Burnett said. 'You seem to be in a bit of a pickle there.'

  'Yeah, I can't seem to get the leverage to, well, can you give me a hand?'

  Burnett heaved the first body off and then the second, which turned out to be his beloved Chief I
nspector. Burnett fought back the urge to salute and helped the living man to his feet. He was a big man, Burnett saw. He recognised him, but then he was not the type of man you'd forget, with his rugby player build, unruly afro and beaming smile. He winced as Burnett pulled him to his feet. He must have been six feet.

  'You all right?' Burnett asked.

  'Fuck me,' Tana replied. 'Pins and fucking needles like you wouldn't believe, sir.'

  ‘Just call me Burnett, Tana.'

  'Right you are,' Tana said. He looked around the gloom. 'So, what the fuck's going on?'

  'Your guess is as good as mine, but if I had to hazard one I'd say it's the end of the world. What happened to you?'

  'Oh fuck, I have no idea. I was talking to the Chief about the collar I made, then there was a commotion and everyone went to the windows. Someone shouted to close the blinds and there was a loud buzzing noise in my head. I must have passed out. I woke up about an hour ago in the dark, covered in the brass.

  'At first I reckoned it had to be that sick fucker I brought in, so I figured I should keep schtum, but I tried to move my legs and realised I couldn't shake these three for love nor money. Then you came along. I was certain you were going to be him.'

  'Your sick fucker,' Burnett said. 'He was my sick fucker too. I was interviewing him when it happened, he told me what was coming. I'm not convinced he wasn't behind this.'

  'What, all that God of Hellfire, day of judgement bollocks? I got an earful of that in the car on the way to the station. Unsettling stuff.'

  'How did you arrest him?'

  'I'd love to tell you it was some skill on my part but he walked out in front of my car. Covered in blood, wearing a sign around his neck. It said 'I am a murderer' so I nicked him. He didn't resist at all. I've been hearing about all the bodies that have been turning up the last few days, so I hauled him back to the station.'

  'Where did you pick him up?'

  'Uh, round by the war memorial I think, on Briggs Street? Right by the Methodist church.'

  'What, exactly, did he say in the car?'

  'Christ, he wouldn't shut up. Ranting on – calm though – about the end of the world, how he was a messenger from God. Started talking about the people he'd killed. If I'd had a partner out there with me, I might have gotten it all down, but you know what this place is like, budget cuts and all.'

  'Anything else?' Burnett asked.

  'Just, you know, nutter stuff.' He paused for a second. 'Wait, where is he? Is he still in the station?

  'He wasn't here when I woke up.'

  'Do you think he's still out there?

  'I do.'

  'And?'

  'I'm going to go out and find that fucker, and we're going to make sure he isn't doing any more of the Lord's work.'

  'How are we gonna do that?'

  'We're not. I am. Go and find your family, do whatever it is you need to do.'

  'I'll stick with you, if it's all the same.'

  Burnett frowned. He had spent the last few years avoiding every attempt to partner him up with every Tom, Dick, and Harry. He had no intention of taking a partner on now.

  They made their way out of the building. As soon as they were outside, Tana stood dumbstruck and stared at the carnage. Burnett gave him a minute.

  'I'm going to walk the village, see what I can find,' he said.

  They walked in silence for a few minutes, the constant discovery of bodies numbing them as they went. Tana stayed in step with him.

  'So, Tana, what's your story?'

  'You mean, how did a cockney end up working as a bobby in rural North Yorkshire?'

  'Yeah.'

  'I came up here to play rugby. I'm Samoan, or at least my family is. They moved here when I was a kid. London. I came up here to play for Leeds Rhinos; did that for about five years, but my knee went and I couldn't get my fitness back up. So the Police seemed like a good fit for me. I joined the West Yorkshire force at first, got transferred here a few months back. What about you?'

  'Me?' Burnett replied. 'Not much to tell. I was from London too. I met someone and followed them here. They left, I stayed.'

  Tana seemed to sense that he shouldn't push further, which Burnett appreciated.

  There were no signs of life in Cottingthorpe. They crossed into the centre of the village, but there was nothing there. Burnett surveyed the scene. Duck ponds. Churches. Milk Vans. Corpses everywhere. A damn nice place to live, yesterday.

  He looked back at the duck pond. One body in particular caught his eye. All the other bodies lay where they had fallen, on pavements, against cars, in bushes. One figure alone stood out, sat upright on a bench, overlooking the duck pond. He motioned to Tana. They started to cross the open ground between them.

  At first he wondered if this might be their killer, but as he drew closer he saw that the man's figure was held upright, the rigid pole of a broom handle wedged down the man's coat, tape holding it to the bench. He was alive though, his back rising in fitful breaths.

  Burnett lowered his weapon as he rounded the bench. He had to fight back the urge to gag at the sight before him.

  The man clung to life, his shallow breaths and distant eyes a result of the sheer willpower required to try and hold in the intestines that spilled out of his stomach.

  He seemed to sense their arrival, although he made no effort to look their way.

  'Help,' he said in a small voice. Burnett looked around him. There was no help. Not anymore.

  'Fuck,' he said. He covered the man’s mouth and nose and put him out of his misery, the muffles of his dying breaths carrying around the empty park.

  Burnett looked to Tana once the man had finished struggling, expecting some kind of protest, but his attention lay elsewhere.

  'Detective,' Tana said, and pointed to the ground. Burnett's eyes followed his partner's gaze to the grass in front of them, where a hewn section of the dead man's guts spelled out rough words:

  Too Late

  Chapter Seven

  Stuck Between Stations

  The nightclub was the source of many of the bodies that now littered the streets. The closer they got to the gaping outer doors, the denser they became. It must have been quite the crowd.

  'Well I don't know about you but I could go for a drink right now,' Leon said, looking up at the darkening sky. They had spent the day entirely fruitlessly.

  'I don't know,' Tom replied. 'I'm not sure it's safe.'

  'Looks to me like everyone came outside and died,' Leon said, stepping over the bodies. 'So I don't see why not. And besides, I'm fucking thirsty.'

  Tom nodded. They started to pick their way through the rare patches of ground not covered by dead club-goers, slowly progressing to the double doors, which had been flung open. The corridor beyond was thick with corpses. Tom imagined the scene as rumours of the storm circulated through the busy club and everyone strained to see what the fuss was about. Most of them would have barely seen the sky before the storm claimed them.

  Leon stopped at the doors. There was no way through. 'We'll have to go over them,' he said.

  Tom looked at his friend and nodded. They were too thirsty not to try. He put one foot onto a corpse and put his weight down, slowly. There was a sharp crack, and he had fight to keep down the rising bile. He put his hand out to steady himself and stepped forward. Another crack rang out.

  It was slow going, and as they made their way into the dark corridor they stumbled more than once, each time their outstretched hands finding cold, dead flesh.

  Tom couldn't see a thing, the dusky early-evening light of the outside world completely gone now. The darkness pressed in around him. All he could hear was his own rattled breath and the crunch of bones, and soon the panic overwhelmed him. He scrabbled forward, wanting desperately to be free of this.

  He heard Leon retching behind him.

  There was a solid door in front of him. He groped for a handle, sure the way would be barred, but the cool metal handle turned and the door swung open.


  The bodies ended, and Tom found his feet back on solid floor. It was still pitch black.

  'Let's find the bar,' Tom said, his voice echoing around the cavernous room.

  'Good idea,' Leon replied. 'Although…'

  'What?'

  'It's just… who closed those doors?'

  It clicked with him an instant too late.

  There was a high, shrieking scream. Something slammed into his stomach, hard, and Tom crumpled. He fell to the ground, aware of sounds and movement around him. He was winded, curled up into a ball on the floor, half expecting his attacker to follow up their initial volley with a flurry of kicks. There was a shout and a crash.

  'Tom?' Leon called out.

  'Here,' Tom replied, as best he could.

  'Stay the fuck there,' Leon shouted.

  'Leon?' he tried to say, but the word got lost somewhere in his chest. A hand clamped onto his shirt and pulled him up.

  'You okay?' Leon asked.

  'Don't hurt me.' It was another voice. Terrified and urgent.

  'We're not going to hurt you, you silly prick,' Leon said.

  Tom had no idea what was going on. He flicked a lighter, illuminating the scene. Leon stood, brandishing a long bit of wood, which Tom assumed was the same one which had swung at his own stomach. Standing across from him was a wiry bespectacled man, clad in what passed for fashionable garb amongst the townie types Tom associated with this particular nightclub. His salmon pink shirt was smeared in dirt and blood. The man's eyes flitted between Tom and Leon, red raw from crying.

  'Hey,' Tom said, struggling to his feet. 'We're not here to hurt you; we're looking for something to drink, okay?'

  The man nodded, just before the flame on Leon's lighter gave out and darkness filled the room again.

  'Hang on,' the man said, and a few moments later a candle light flickered a few feet away, then another. 'I stubbed them out when I heard you coming.'

  'Why?'

  'I don't know.'

  'Probably wise,' Tom said.

  The candlelight showed the rough outline of the bar. Tom went over and opened a now-defunct fridge and removed three bottles. He opened them and passed both men a beer. The look of relief on the face of the bespectacled man confirmed what Tom had suspected. Despite walloping Tom in the stomach, this man was as far from a threat to them as the beer in his hand.