Blood on the Motorway, #1

by Paul Stephenson

  As much as he hated to admit it, the priest had a point. Burnett was wasting his time here, chasing ghosts. There was no point trailing the bogeyman all over the place, especially when there wasn't even a trail. He'd admitted as much to Tana – they'd find the bastard when he wanted to be found. That might mean more deaths along the way, but he couldn't be responsible for every body that fell.

  He took another lungful of clean country air and let the cold breeze wash over him. He loved this place, even if he'd never been able to fulfil the role of Heathcliff. Come to think of it, Heathcliff was an absolute bastard to Cathy. Elaine should have seen it coming, really.

  After he'd filled up on regrets and recriminations he walked back to the car and got back in. He had no idea what to do now. He wouldn't fit in back at the sanctuary. Not enough of a people-person for that gig. He could waste months chasing a killer down a rabbit hole, or he could go full-on lone wolf, and strike out on his own. None of the above sounded much fun to him.

  He thought of Elaine again. Maybe he should go and see if she was alright, if she had survived the storm. The scenario entered his mind of turning up at her door to find her alive and well. She'd start screaming at him about how he'd ruined her life. She'd probably hit him with something. Seemed a waste of his efforts.

  Turning back onto the main road again, he headed back toward Cottingthorpe. The sky darkened. The wrecks and bodies were hard enough to navigate in the day, so he resolved to stop at the next opportunity. Out here on the open roads there was little to distract him, and Burnett began to realise how tired he was. His eyelids felt heavy, his concentration waned, and the car started to pull over to the grass beside the road, threatening to tip into the verge. Burnett's attention snapped back into place.

  He cursed. The adrenaline of almost crashing would sustain him for a few minutes, but he needed to get off the road. As the skies darkened, he had no frame of reference outside the glare of his own headlights. He couldn't see if there were farmhouses, or anywhere to hang his hat. All he could see was the road.

  A corner came up and Burnett eased off the pedal to allow for it, but he couldn't see beyond the curve. He was going too fast when the deer appeared in the road before him, and swerved as hard as he could to avoid it. He was only partially successful. The driver's side of the front bumper clipped the hind of the startled animal, sending it careening out of sight.

  The car hit the grass verge of the roadside. It flipped, and Burnett tried in vain to regain control as it flew through the air and into a field. It connected with the ground in an angry jolt of metal and earth. Burnett tossed around in his seat, his brain registering pain from several places at once and responding with a clear, calm message to its owner that he was about to die.

  * * * * *

  A metallic taste filled his mouth as he awoke, the sun shining in his eyes. He squinted at the latter and worked his tongue around the former to make sure he still had his teeth. They were still there, which was lucky since he doubted there'd be too many dental practitioners this side of the apocalypse.

  He was still strapped into the driver's seat of the car, held in place above the passenger side by a thin strip of seatbelt. The car had flipped onto its side, and below him he could see the other side of the car was in a lot worse shape, all concertinaed up and mangled.

  Lucky.

  He started to move his legs and arms to check how well that luck held up. His arms seemed fine, if a little bruised, but as he moved his right leg something wasn't right. Eyes adjusting to the sunlight streaming in through the broken windshield, he looked down. The trouser clung to his leg, matted with blood. He moved his hand down as far as the seatbelt would allow, but all he discovered was that touching it hurt. He'd need to get out of his trousers to check what the hell was going on down there.

  His fingers worked the seatbelt clasp. He was careful to hold onto the little handle above the window so as to stop himself falling down to the other side of the car, but it wouldn't budge. He adjusted his weight a little, hoping it would give him the slack to release the catch, but it still refused to yield.

  After a few minutes it began to dawn on him he was stuck. He continued his attempts to open the clasp, and started to yank the other end of the belt, but that wouldn't give, either. He looked around for something to cut the belt. His gun was gone. He reached as far forward as the belt allowed and tried to gather up some of the broken glass to cut through the belt, but it was safety glass, and had no impact on the fabric, no matter how hard he rubbed.

  He had no idea how long he tried to force the button, but it felt like hours. The sun shone straight through the windshield, unmoved by his efforts. He cursed and adjusted himself. Sitting in the same position for an age made his bones ache. The thin strip of synthetic fibres that seemed to be his new nemesis didn't help much, digging their way into his chest. He thought about the killer, and what he would think if he saw Burnett now, bested by a seatbelt.

  The sun moved out of his eye line. He stopped struggling, and stared through the broken glass to the field outside for hours, punctuated only by the occasional burst of mania as he wrestled with his prison to no avail.

  His stomach started to ache and his mouth was dry.

  He was going to die here in this car. The realisation arrived with an unnerving but welcome sense of calm. He started to drift off to sleep, wondering whether he would wake again in the morning.

  * * * * *

  When he did wake, it was to the same bright sunshine that greeted him the day before. He tried to stretch his limbs again, and as a reflex tried the clasp again, knowing full well it wouldn't work. This time it did. The belt retracted back into the door and Burnett fell the short distance to the floor, slamming into the broken glass and twisted metal with a shriek and a wail, and hot, fiery pain.

  He lay there for a moment, his right leg still on the driver's side, held up by the handbrake. Burnett shifted, and saw a deep gash had cut through the skin on his shin. It was an ugly wound, but the blood had dried over and started to heal. Not so bad.

  More pressing now was the need for water. He felt weak and nauseous and knew he needed to rehydrate soon. After some tricky manoeuvring he climbed out of the broken windscreen, his body aching with every movement. He managed to get his feet into the field to stand up. He looked around, dismayed to see nothing other than endless miles of rolling fields, cut through with the road he'd come off.

  He leaned on the cut leg. It hurt like a bastard, but he could walk on it. He looked at the car. If he hadn't climbed out of it himself he'd never have believed anyone could. He would have to proceed on foot and hope for a farmhouse, or a stream, or anything.

  He cricked his neck, shook out his legs, and started to walk.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Black or Blue

  Tom flitted between sleep, nightmares, and staring into the dark until the first light of dawn crept through the curtains. He looked across the room at Leon, his skin a pallid grey, his eyes fixed forward and red.

  'Morning,' Tom said.

  Leon didn't reply, but blinked himself out of his state and stood. He went over to the window, outside which last night's body still lay. Tom joined him, fighting back the urge to open the window and head out to a certain death. He couldn't see any point in doing anything else. If this was the world now, if last night was some measure of the life they had ahead of them, was there any point in sticking around? Did he want to be party to humanity’s final descent into savagery? But the window was suicide-proof. It wouldn't open more than a crack.

  Foiled again.

  Sounds returned to the hotel as people in the other rooms roused themselves. Tom's stomach growled, but the idea of food turned his stomach. Knocking sounds and conversation came from outside. In anticipation, Tom and Leon made their way to the door and stood, waiting.

  The knock came to their door and Tom opened it. It was Oak. Tom felt utter revulsion at the sight of him. He wanted to leap forward and break the man in front of
him.

  'Morning campers,' Oak said. 'Breakfast is served downstairs.' He moved to the next door.

  Was he the one?

  Oak make his way down the corridor. Tom looked at the other rooms, wondering which one held last night's victim. The corridor offered no answers, only confused and broken people leaving their rooms and trudging down the corridors.

  'Move it along,' Oak called behind him.

  Tom and Leon joined the others. A man ushered out them of the hotel, and Tom wondered if they were going straight back onto the buses. Instead they were herded into the main service station and its huge open plan restaurant area. At one time serviced by four separate fast food outlets, it was now serviced by three tables upon which the contents of the adjacent WH Smiths lay scattered.

  Baxter and the majority of his men had had first pick. They sat on two tables together, munching their way through the pick of the sandwiches and giant chocolate bars.

  The prisoners stood together, unsure.

  'Well go on then!' Baxter called out to his captives, and they trudged forward to the table. At the sound his voice a surge of anger flowed through Tom again, but this ebbed away into sullen helplessness. Tears welled up, but he wiped them away with his sleeve.

  People started to pick through the remaining stale sandwiches. Tom joined them. He found a Cornish pasty and some crisps, and a small bottle of warm orange juice. He and Leon took their offerings to a table and sat in silence as they ate. The only sounds came from the top tables, where Baxter's men laughed loudly.

  Having finished his paltry breakfast, Leon pulled out his tobacco pouch and started to roll two cigarettes for them, and surreptitiously sprinkled a little weed into each. 'Might as well numb the pain a little, eh?'

  Tom said nothing, and scanned the tables. He wanted to see if the victim of last night's attack was there with them. He didn't know who he was looking for, and the thousand-yard stares on his fellow prisoners meant it could have been any one of them.

  Then he saw her. Alone on a table, hair not covering her face enough to hide a fresh bruise, a young woman sipped an orange juice. She stared at the table like she was trying to burn a hole in it with her mind.

  Tom's own shame and self-loathing were nothing compared to what this woman had gone through. A fresh sting of guilt burned in the pit of his stomach.

  'You coming?' Leon asked.

  Tom nodded. They headed to the doors.

  'Where are you going?' one of Baxter's men asked. It was Wiry, but if he recognised Tom and Leon from the minibus his eyes showed no sign of it. They may as well have been cattle to him.

  'Smoke,' Leon said.

  'Fine,' he said after a moment. He leant in. 'You try and make a run for it, you won't get far.'

  They headed out into the fresh air. Tom revelled for a second as a cold blast of morning air hit his face. He lit up. The smoke hit the back of his throat and he allowed himself to imagine he was still in his previous life. He wanted to go back, back to hanging out with his friends, watching television, drinking, and smoking. Back to having no purpose, being able to lose weeks to the newest computer game. All he had now were a woman's muffled cries reverberating around his head.

  'Oh for fuck's sake,' Leon said.

  'What?'

  'Up there.'

  He pointed up. A sniper lay on the roof of the adjacent building, his rifle pointed at them. The man gave a little wave at them.

  'Jesus,' Tom said.

  'We need to get out of here somehow.'

  'I don't disagree, but how?'

  'I dunno, maybe if we can get everyone to rush them all at once, most of us might make it out?'

  'We'd walk out straight into sniper fire,' Tom said. 'Besides, I don't like your chances of turning a load of terrified and bewildered hostages into a group formidable enough to face down a load of trained mercenaries.'

  Leon nodded. They smoked in silence for a few minutes and put out the joints on the concrete floor. Neither made any move to return indoors.

  'Why are they doing this?' Leon asked.

  'Maybe this is all they know. They've spent the last God knows how many years repressing the fuck out of people in the name of democracy and now they think this is how you do things. You have to say it's working for them, too.'

  'Where are the real army? The government? If we all survived, and Baxter and his men survived, surely somewhere some bit of government did too?'

  'Maybe,' Tom said.

  The doors opened and out came some of Baxter's men.

  'You boys smoke?' one of them called out. They nodded. 'Well get in there and help yourself to some tabs before they all run out.'

  They made their way in, as everyone was on their way out the door, all clutching cigarettes and lighters. In the WH Smiths the cigarette counter stood decimated. Tom and Leon helped themselves to a few packets each and some tobacco pouches.

  'Wonder how long it'll be before we start running out of tobacco?' Leon said.

  'I'm more worried about when we run out of food,' Tom replied.

  'I reckon Baxter's the key,' Leon said in a low voice. Tom nodded.

  'Agreed.'

  'If we could get him away from the rest of his group.'

  'We'd need to get the sniper down from the roof as well,' Tom said. 'Without that our chances go from slim to fucked.'

  The hall was nearly empty. The only other person in the room was the woman sat alone at her table. She looked up, sensing his gaze, and he tried to convey his guilt, remorse, solidarity and everything else in a weak smile, but she looked away.

  'Fuck's sake, can you say Stockholm syndrome?' Leon said, looking the other direction.

  Tom followed his gaze. Outside the smokers from Baxter's men and the hostages were milling together like they were on a collective fag break from reality, laughing and joking together.

  Tom looked back to the woman at the table.

  'Do you think we should say something?' he asked Leon.

  'Say what, exactly?'

  'I don't know.'

  'Well, you should probably try to figure that out before you go over there.'

  Tom nodded.

  'Fuck, Tom, what are we going to do?'

  Tom had no answer. He was still watching the woman sat alone. She wiped a tear away with her sleeve.

  Oak walked over to her table, leaned over to whisper something to her. She turned to the huge man, her face full of hatred, and spat in his face.

  Tom was halfway to her table when the mercenary's fist slammed into the woman's chest. All thought abandoned him as he leapt at the huge man and swung his fist. It connected with the bigger man's ear, sending a righteous flash of pain up Tom's arm.

  The man stumbled, confused, but that barely lasted long enough for Tom to congratulate himself for a job well done before Oak bore down on him, face filled with rage.

  When the punch came it connected with Tom's chest, driving all the air from his lungs. Something snapped somewhere inside. He flew backwards and smashed against the floor.

  Everything hurt, all at once. He managed to draw a breath and open his eyes in time to see a thick leg pulling back to deliver a blow to his head, but something rushed past him and sent his aggressor sprawling.

  Leon!

  He could kiss his friend, had he the energy to do anything other than wheeze.

  His moment of triumph was short lived. Baxter's men arrived, and Tom saw Leon fall to the floor, blood spurting from his nose. Tom took a heavy blow to his back, sending a surge of pain across his body. Something struck his head, and everything went black.

  * * * * *

  He awoke to the curious sensation of sliding sideways, which registered before the searing pain in his head, back, and ribs. His eyes stubbornly wouldn't open. They felt sealed. He raised his fingers to them and felt some kind of dried crust, which he rubbed away. The sliding motion came to an abrupt end as he bumped into something.

  He blinked, his vision blurred. As the world came into focus he real
ised he was in some kind of container. A van? The back was empty aside from himself and someone else. He blinked again. It was Leon. He looked terrible, his face bruised and swollen, his leg in some kind of rudimentary splint. A strap around his wrist prevented him from sliding around. He stared away from Tom, his face contorting with pain at every movement of the van.

  'Leon,' Tom said, the words hurting on their way out of his throat. His friend looked over at him. 'What the fuck happened?'

  'What the fuck happened? I'd pretty much say you happened.'

  'Are you okay?'

  'Not really, no. I have a broken ankle, probably a couple of broken ribs and no doctor to treat them, no hospital to go to, so there's a pretty good chance I'll die from a relatively minor wound. Oh, and my face feels like the meat in Rocky Balboa's freezer after a training session.'

  'Shit,' Tom tried to interject.

  'Oh, I'm not finished,' Leon said. 'I was dumped, broken ankle and all, in the back of a van, presumably being driven by a drunken blind mule. All because you had to go and be the hero.'

  Silence fell. Tom felt a sinking feeling. 'What happened?'

  'No idea. Someone stamped on my leg and I blacked out too. I came too as they were putting us in the back of the van, there was a lot of shouting and noise. To be honest I thought you might be dead. They closed the door and we started moving. I would have presumed they were taking us away to kill us, except they didn't seem too shy about killing in front of people before.'

  'I'm so sorry.'

  'Yeah, well, I can't be too pissed off with you for doing what I didn't have the balls to do. Besides, it was pretty funny trying to watch you fight with all the skills of a four-year-old.' He motioned to Tom's face. 'And it's not like you got off scot-free.'

  'Is it bad?' Tom asked.

  'You'd better hope it's true chicks dig scars.'

  Tom raised his hands to his face. The moment fingers met flesh deep rivulets of pain opened up. It felt like great chasms had opened up across his skin. He groaned. His hand moved to the back of his head, which seemed the source of a lot of his pain. It was a mess of matted hair, blood and more pain.