Blood on the Motorway, #1

by Paul Stephenson

  'He started going on about starting a new utopia, new society, making Britain strong again. Stupid little prick, he thought he could take us somewhere, we'd all become his slaves and he'd have his own little kingdom.'

  'That sounds like him,' Leon said.

  'Anyway, we talked things through with him. He's an intimidating man, but he's not that smart. It didn't take us long to make him see how idiotic he was being. We told him we could make a fresh start, how we needed strong leadership, but using this as the basis for anything was never going to work.'

  'How did he take that?' Tom asked.

  'He didn't like it, but we flattered him enough to keep him on side. Told him we'd support him as leader, we'd follow him in his quest as long as nobody else got hurt, and so long as he kept his men in check.'

  'You made him leader?' Tom said, incredulous.

  'Keep your voice down,' she hissed. 'Of course we did. If we hadn't, you two would be dead by now.'

  She fixed him with a furious glare and he bowed his head in agreement.

  'Sorry,' he said. 'It's just…'

  'I know, and I'm with you, okay? We all are. Baxter is the enemy, but he's stronger than us. We have to bide our time. In the meantime he'll be reticent to step out of line in case we turn on him. If that happens we'll overpower him, or more likely all end up dead, neither of which he wants to see.'

  'You sure he won't just kill us and start again?' Leon asked, wincing as he pulled himself up a bit on the bed.

  'If he kills us, he's the tin pot king of fuck all,' Tom said. 'Well done. You did a lot better than we did.'

  'If you hadn't acted, I'm not sure any of us would have had the courage,' she replied.

  'I didn't catch your name, by the way,' Tom said.

  'Susan,' she replied. 'You're Tom and Leon, right?'

  They nodded.

  'So we've formed the insurgency, I guess?' Tom said.

  'Looks that way,' Susan replied.

  They sat in silence for a moment, Tom thinking how absurd it was that he'd gone from stoner slacker to insurgent warrior in only a few days. All he'd done to achieve this new status was get beaten up.

  'What happened to the girl?' Tom asked.

  'That was the other condition. I treated her face, where that meathead had punched her, and she told me what happened. When we spoke to Baxter we made him let her go. I explained to him she was liable to kill one of his men in his sleep if she stayed, and her presence would be a reminder to us all that he couldn't keep his men in check. He let her go. We watched her leave, to be sure.'

  They sat in silence for a few moments more.

  'So we keep quiet and let him be in charge?' Leon asked, uncomfortable with the concept.

  'For now,' Susan replied.

  'Then what?' Leon asked.

  'Then we kill him,' Tom replied. 'Him, and all his men.'

  * * * * *

  The next few days passed with a mix of horror and boredom. Tom and Leon sat in their rooms, the aches and pains of their collective beatings lessening with time. Tom found himself with little else to do except read, eat, and watch the comings and goings of the people outside.

  The tension was clear to see, even from the first floor window of his cottage. Baxter's men wanted to throw their weight around, wanted to regain control, but they were sticking to the terms of the truce. Their former hostages, on the other hand, all looked like they'd like to turn heels and run in the opposite direction. Tom guessed that the moment anyone took that option Baxter's men would use it an excuse to reassert their dominance.

  He and Leon had a steady stream of visitors, but none from Baxter's men. Susan was their most frequent visitor, coming to tend to her patients. After the first few days, Tom noticed her bedside manner seemed more pronounced when she tended to Leon than to him. Tom was glad. This was the longest Leon had been without a girl in his life, so it was nice to see his friend's mojo had survived the apocalypse.

  The rest of the survivors all came to see him, in drips and drabs. They seemed to mistake his futile gesture as some kind of bold move which made him somehow worthy of their adulation. His insistence to the contrary only seemed to strengthen their resolve.

  Maybe they needed someone to rally around, someone to look up to, but he was sure as shit that person wasn't him, or Leon for that matter. So he smiled and nodded when people told him how much they admired him for 'taking a stand'. They would leave, and he'd go back to burying himself in a book or staring out the window.

  He missed music. He hadn't heard a song in days, and he ached to fill this idle time with sound. He would kill for some pretentious post-rock, or math-metal, or some breakneck jazz. Christ, he'd settle for boy bands and Disney songs right now.

  He looked at the books on the bookcase. Who would write stories now? Would anyone ever record an album again? Ten thousand years of civilisation behind them; was this the end of it? There might never be another play, or movie, or medical miracle. No more Children in Need or FA Cup finals or regenerations of Doctor Who. Every band he had ever dreamed of seeing live, every comic book that went unresolved, the perpetual basket of ironing which sat in his parents' house. What the hell was left for the survivors? Scrambling around over the scraps until they all died?

  * * * * *

  At the end of the third day the supplies in the village ran short. People rushed around talking to each other, and Tom listened as they came and asked him what they should do, as if he had some miraculous access to information they didn't.

  The food shortage had come about because nobody had bothered with the fresh produce while it was still edible, ploughing their way instead through the longer-shelf-life food, but as soon as that ran out they had realised the fresh goods had rotted. Things started getting tetchy, until Baxter's men went and procured some food from a nearby village. Nobody seemed overly concerned how they had managed it.

  The more Tom saw, the less he wanted to be there. He wanted to grab Leon and sneak out one night, as soon as they were up to it. Tom felt better now, but Leon still struggled to walk. Tom's face was still bruised and tender, as were most of his ribs.

  Evening was falling on the fourth day when Leon hobbled into his room. 'Fancy a J?' he asked, brandishing a giant conical spliff.

  'Fucking hell dude, how have you still got any weed?'

  'This is the last of it, so we may as well enjoy it. It's medicinal, after all.'

  'True.'

  'So how are you feeling?' Leon asked.

  'Like I want to get out of here,' Tom replied.

  'Me too.'

  They sat and smoked.

  'We can't though, can we?' Leon asked.

  Tom shook his head.

  They smoked in silence, and when the spliff went out Leon went back to his room. Tom lay down on his bed in the dull candlelight and let the room spin around him.

  * * * * *

  The next morning, Tom and Leon were trying to cobble together some semblance of breakfast from the disparate contents of their kitchen, when Susan stomped into the house, slamming down a bag of supplies on the table and muttering under her breath.

  'What's up, Suze?' Leon asked, as Tom started to pick through the carrier bag.

  'His Lordship has decided to start throwing his weight around again. He heard that Pat and Phil sneaked away. He's sent two men after them. Thank God he doesn't seem to realise they left two nights ago and went in the completely opposite direction to his men, so they should be fine. But now he's saying it means he should never have loosened his grip on us.'

  'What's he doing?' Tom asked.

  'He's instructed everyone to meet outside this afternoon, says it's not optional. He told me to pass it on to both of you. He said he doesn't care if you're at death's door, attendance is mandatory. Well, he didn't use those exact words. I'm not convinced he'd know the word mandatory.'

  'Any idea what he's planning?'

  'Who knows?' she replied, throwing her hands up in exasperation. 'He wants to reassert his dom
inance. Could be he means to take you both out. I say we either turn up and cross our fingers, or we try to get away. Now.'

  Tom went to the window and looked out. People were bustling about sharing anxious glances with each other, and Baxter's men had gone back into full on prowl mode.

  'That's not going to work,' Tom said. 'Whatever he's got planned, we need to prepare ourselves. We can hear him out, but we need to be ready to act if he tries to pull any shit with us.'

  'Act how?' Leon asked.

  Tom turned to Susan. 'Can you get word around to everyone?'

  'I think so.'

  'Okay, good. Tell people to be ready. If it goes wrong, you take down the closest bastard to you.'

  'How?' Susan asked.

  'However you can. Kick them in the shins; punch them on the nose; or, fuck, stab them with a kitchen knife if you have to.'

  'This is ridiculous,' Leon said. 'They'll kill us all.'

  'Killed now, or killed later, I'm not sure I see the difference,' Susan said.

  Leon shook his head.

  'What about a signal?' Susan asked.

  'Well I imagine if it goes down, it'll go down fast, but I dunno. Let's say "crossroads". If they hear me say that, they act first.'

  '"Crossroads"?'

  'I dunno, first thing that came into my head.'

  'It's a bit Bon Jovi, but, fine,' she said.

  'Pass it around, but, needless to say, it can't get back to Baxter and his men. Tell people if they can bring a weapon then do it.'

  Susan nodded, gave them both a hug and left. The door closed and Leon and Tom exchanged a look. Tom's heart pounded, and he had a sudden and inescapable feeling of buyer's remorse.

  'You sure this is a good idea?' Leon asked.

  'Not even remotely.'

  * * * * *

  The crowd started to filter into the village square, such as it was. Tom wondered how far the word had gotten round. If Susan hadn't spread it far he was walking towards an epic suicide bid. He fingered the hilt of the small kitchen knife wedged into his waistband.

  After days cooped up in the house, Tom was glad of the fresh air on his face, although his heart hammered too fast to appreciate it.

  Tom and Leon split up, positioning themselves as strategically as they could. Tom stood near the centre of the small square, Leon near one of the exits, next to one of Baxter's men. Tom looked around for Oak, and saw him standing guard against one of the exit points from the square. He saw Tom watching and gave him a wry smile. Tom's stomach flipped.

  The other hostages were wearing the same startled expressions they had worn before the service station. A murmur made its way through the crowd.

  Baxter appeared from one of the houses, and strode past Leon, his perma-tan fading in this post-tanning-bed world. He headed straight for the centre of the park, and Tom thought for one horrible second that he was striding right up to kill him. He fought the urge to turn and sprint in the opposite direction.

  'So good to see you back on your feet, mate,' he said as he passed Tom, a self-satisfied smirk playing across his face. Baxter reached the small centre of the square and climbed up onto the modest war memorial that stood there.

  'Evening, ladies and gentlemen,' he said, his voice cutting through the murmured chatter. 'You may be wondering why I've asked you all to come and listen to me.' He turned and stared straight at Tom. 'It's just, I think we're at a bit of a… crossroad.'

  Hands grabbed Tom roughly about the shoulders, stopping him from finally indulging his instinct to bolt. Hands forced him to his knees. There was no response from the crowd other than stunned shock, which wasn't of great use to Tom at that moment.

  He could try to get the knife from his waistband, but that would just hasten the arrival of his imminent demise. He thought about shouting 'Crossroads!' at the top of his lungs, but what the hell would be the point? The moment had gone, and soon he would be too.

  A boot smashed into his side, sending him sprawling to the ground. His head thumped against the cold tarmac. More blows rained on his body. All Tom could do was curl up into a ball as a flurry of kicks and stamps rained down.

  Through the soft thuds of shoe on rib he could hear commotion and noise around him. The feet stopped for a moment, and Tom seized the opportunity to pull himself forward. His ribcage protested at the movement, but he carried on. He chanced a look up. Arguments and scuffles surrounded him.

  There was damp somewhere around his waist. He remembered the knife in his waistband and reasoned it must be cutting into him. He reached down and pulled it into his hand.

  He inched himself up into a sitting position. Nobody stopped him, although people were pressing against him. Through the crowd he made out Baxter, still stood on his little plinth, surveying the scene before him with the same wry smile plastered across his face.

  Tom stood, his ribs trying their best to stop him on the way up. He gripped the knife handle, holding the blade up his arm to hide it. He focused on Baxter and began to walk forward. He moved quickly enough that Baxter barely had time to tear his gaze from the crowd before it was too late.

  The knife was already hilt deep in Baxter's torso by the time Tom even felt any resistance. He locked eyes with him, watched his wry smile replaced by a look of total panic.

  Tom thought back to the girl in the service station, to the kicking he'd received at the hands of this man, and to the ride in the lorry. He gripped the handle with both hands and pulled upwards with all his strength, spilling blood and innards all over both of them.

  Warm blood gushed over him, soaking his jeans, and by the time the knife hit Baxter's ribcage and came to a halt, the panic had gone from his eyes. The body slid off the blade and fell to the floor.

  Everyone stood silent, all eyes on him. He dropped the knife, which clattered on the ground. He looked down at his feet, covered in intestinal waste, then up at the shocked crowd.

  It was as though someone had hit the pause button on a particularly unbalanced action scene. Fists were raised and held in mid-air, necks were held by the scruff, but all faces pointed towards him.

  'What do we do now?' he called out, to nobody in particular.

  The crowd looked around at each other but stood silent, until finally Oak dropped Leon to the floor, and started to stride toward Tom.

  He only made it a few paces before Susan appeared from out of nowhere, pipe in hand, and swung it at the back of Oak's head with such ferocity that his face hit the floor with a sickening crunch before the rest of his oversized body did.

  'Holy shit!' Susan said. Her nurse's instinct kicked in and she fell to her knees to try and save the man she had killed.

  Tom looked around at the rest of Baxter's men, who as one dropped their weapons and raised their hands in surrender.

  Tom laughed.

  'Job done then,' he said, before fainting.

  Chapter Seventeen

  To Carry the Flame

  Burnett forced the seat back as far as it would go, slipped off his boots and put his feet up on the dashboard. It had taken him two days to return to Cottingthorpe, one of which had been by foot, until, stumbling and beaten, he'd come across a farmhouse and a car that worked. One night there and he'd made his way back here, like it was a beacon. His leg still ached like a bastard, but he'd at least patched it up and cleaned the wound. He'd acquired a week's worth of junk food and energy drinks, and set himself up here, down the street from the sanctuary.

  The stench of his own feet was unbearable, so he rolled down the window.

  He had returned, but hadn't been able to face going in. He had pulled up outside when he arrived and seen the comings and goings. They'd evidently gotten along fine without him.

  He waited. At some point or another, his killer would come back this way, and when he did, Burnett would be ready.

  It was nothing to do with him being a coward.

  No sir.

  A one-man stakeout was unsustainable, but here he was attempting it anyway. Now he was here, h
e knew full well that the minute he went to go and have a shower, or tried to sleep, he would miss something. If he missed something, he would miss everything. So he sat, and he watched.

  And watched.

  He'd been awake for four straight days since his return, and the effects of severe sleep deprivation were taking their toll. He couldn't shake the idea that the killer was playing with him somehow, that he was out there, maybe even watching him, waiting for him to give up his vigil so he could strike again.

  Or was that his sleep deprived paranoia? Maybe there was nothing to see here after all.

  Move along folks, the show's over.

  Maybe he'd spotted Burnett's vigil and decided better of it? No, that didn't fit. Here was a man utterly unafraid of the world, who'd killed dozens and walked free from a police station amidst an apocalypse only he seemed to have had forewarning of. It seemed unlikely he'd be put off by a dishevelled man sitting in a car.

  His eyes stung. He was down to his last bottle of water now, so he poured a tiny amount into his hands and rubbed it on his face. He took a swig, cricked his neck and put the seat back up. Soon he'd be washing in Red Bull.

  Tana and the priest seemed to be making a decent fist of their enterprise. The last few days had seen a fair bit of movement, especially. Tana and the priest had taken it in turns to go out and gather survivors, and they had been arriving in fits and starts each day, some looking close to the point of total exhaustion. Tana and the priest took each one in.

  Burnett was glad for them, and pleased Tana had turned his back on the world of police work. He wasn't exactly detective material, given he hadn't even noticed their new haven had been under surveillance for four straight days. Or maybe he had seen Burnett out there and decided to ignore him. Burnett could hardly blame him.

  What the fuck am I even doing out here?