The Devils Harvest: The End of All Flesh.

by Glen Johnson

  Considering there had been a major fire only the day before last, the station was as busy as ever, even at this early hour. Everyone trying to beat the morning traffic. People stopping to refill their vehicles and empty their bladders. Grab junk food to munch on as they drove, or simply to stretch their legs. All the cars were parked close to the main entrance, to avoid getting soaked in the relentless rain.

  I strolled through the large automatic glass doors. The small arcade was filled with young children dropping their parent’s money into the machines as if their lives depended on it. McDonald’s was at busting point selling their breakfast specials. Even the service stations own food area was crowded. Luckily it was early, so the food hadn’t had time to stew and simmer in its own juices until no juices were left.

  I decided not to sit and eat with dozens of eyes boring into me. I walked the small rows in the sweetshop. I picked up a bottle of Dr. Pepper and a triple breakfast sandwich, cheese and onion crisp and a collection of chocolate bars and mints for after. As well as a travel toothbrush and paste. I hadn’t brushed my teeth in days, they felt almost furry.

  I stood for what seemed like hours in the long line, with children crying because they wanted to eat the sweets now, their parents trying to explain they needed paying for first. And people recognizing friends or family members that had beating them out of the toilet, and were now joining them, making the line longer from the middle out.

  Eventually I paid and wandered out to the huge lobby, looking out the large glass doors, seeing the rain pelting down. I picked a quiet corner with a picnic table behind a selection of tall plastic plants and old broken coin fed children’s ride, and consumed my sausage, bacon and egg sandwich, while popping crisps in my mouth at the same time. I downed the bubbly drink, feeling the headache slowly start to recede now sugar was surging through my veins.

  I watched through the fake foliage at people bustling past heading out the door, running to their cars, getting soaked in the process.

  I still sat in the same place even after the rain had settled down a little, retuning back to its lazy mist. My clothes were even starting to dry out, the rain water steaming off my body. It reminded me of the cigarette smoke trailing out the splits in the old woman’s skin.

  I needed the toilet, not knowing when my next chance might be.

  I sat on the same toilet as a few days ago, still as dirty, and still as smelly. Also noticing more writing had been added to the Cottaging message board. A small sign sat under the old one, saying, I waz ere where wer u? With another directly beneath saying, fucking your mum.

  I pulled more money from my bag, shoving it into my wallet. Thankful that the small cheap rucksack was still keeping the water out. I sat listening to the hustle ‘n’ bustle of the children using the toilet as a playground. Fathers telling them to calm down, but not really caring if they did or not, simply reciting the same old threats that the children had grown to ignore.

  I gave myself a check over in the tall grubby mirror, I was wet and bedraggled. But it added to my disguise, which I didn’t mind, but I would rather have been a little warmer. I wish I was as home in my warm four-poster bed. With that in mind, I wondered what else had happened at my house. I decided to purchase a newspaper from the shop, wondering why I didn’t think about doing that earlier. Also a can of deodorant; the smell of smoke still lingered on my clothing.

  In the shop I had a large selection of papers to choice from. My personal preference was the Daily Mail, but the picture on the front of the Daily Express caught my attention – my house.

  I found myself wandering back to the eating hall to spread the paper out on a table. But there on the back of a chair was a coat, with no one around it, with people ignoring it as it hung there. I stood for a few minutes to see if anyone would claim the coat, no one did. Slowly, I inched my way forward, taking the seat next to the one the coat rested on.

  I unfolded the paper and spread it out. The front cover wasn’t the fire or train disaster, all old news. The headline announced – Another West House? With a downward birds-eye view of my farmhouse plastered below. The photo was grainy, showing police milling around, with large white tents scattered about. There where police trucks and white vans everywhere, with portacabins set up to one side.

  The headline was referring to the West family, serial killers whose home had bodies everywhere, in the walls, under floorboards and many in the basement and under the back patio and garden. Even members of their own family. I remembered the case well, most people do. It shocked the nation, and the world.

  Fred and Rosemary West was a husband and wife team. He was a builder, incorporating all the bodies into the structure of the house. I remember one newspaper at the time saying he used to put: body and soul into his work. A tacky joke, but it hit the nail right on the head.

  Fred was convicted of twelve counts of murder on December 13th, 1994. On New Year’s Day he was found hanging inside his cell, having tied strips of his bed sheets together.

  His wife – Rosemary – had been sentenced to twenty-five years on account of aiding ten of the murders. She’s now living out the remainder of her days ordering things from catalogues while sat in a prison cell.

  Under the headline it read: Another house, which has become the tomb to many victims. So far twenty-three bodies have been uncovered, most in the grounds around the old converted farmhouse. More have been uncovered, but as of yet the number of the bodies in these joint graves hasn’t been determined.

  Joint graves? What the fuck? I felt an almost out of body experience, as I disconnected from reality.

  All the bodies that have so far been recovered have shown signs of mutilation and cannibalism.

  Cannibalism? My stomach turned, I fought back vomiting. My vision clouded over. Don’t faint, I screamed at myself inside the privacy of my head. I wiped my hand over my sweating brow. My body had started to shake, head pounding. I was having difficulty focusing my eyes on the words. I forced myself to read on.

  Dr. Emily Parkson, the forensic anthropologist for the west on England, said: ‘I have never seen anything on this scale before. The task of recovering and identifying all the bodies is a major joint venture.’

  Dr. Parkson is leading a team of doctors, pathologists, anthropologists, dentists, finger print specialists and X-ray technicians who are working their way through identifying the victims. They are using missing persons, dental, fingerprints, medical records, tattoos and DNA, to put a name to each body, to bring some sort of closure to families that have been in limbo for far too long.

  I scanned through paragraph after paragraph.

  Writer, and figurative, Jacob Thomas Cain is still on the run, and is at the top of the most wanted list with British authorities. Also number nine on the FBI’s most wanted. Who are aiding in the investigation.

  I looked down at a picture of myself, like looking into a mirror, only now I hope I looked slightly different.

  The story continued, going over what had already been said over the last few days. Finishing by stating there is a large reward concerning my capture. And once again stating I was armed and extremely dangerous, and not to be approached.

  I had read enough. I left the paper where it was. Then as if the coat – that had been left on the seat – was mine, I lifted it and put it on. No one cared what I was doing; everyone ignored me.

  Suddenly I felt a strong hand clamp over my arm. I turned and looked into the milky eyes of a middle-aged man. My fight or flight was kicking in. Or the technical term: fright, fight or flight response. Luckily my subconscious body opted to freeze, and didn’t scream like a ten year old girl and run or punch him in the face.

  What did he want? Did he recognize me? Or was I now wearing his coat, and he was about to cause a scene?

  “Excuse me,” he said in a strong accent I didn’t recognize. “Have you finished with the paper?”

  I almost wept with joy. He must have felt my body relax under his iron grip, as the adrenaline wash
ed away.

  “Sure, all yours, mate,” I simply said, my voice a little shaky.

  With a warm thick Parker jacket now snuggled around me I headed for the exit, before the owner realized he had left his belongings behind. Or the man, I had left the paper with, realized I was the person looking back at him from the second page.

  The coat was perfect. Looking like an Eskimo’s jacket with the zip that went all the way up over the chin, causing a small tunnel that you gaze out from, protecting the face and warming the whole body. No one would see my face now, unless they stood directly in front of me and looked at me head on. I would keep my head down.

  Backpack pulled tight, and hood all the way up, I headed across the car park. Then I saw it – a bus. People milling around even in the rain. Some running back from the service station, others stood hunched over in the drizzle, having one last cigarette before the bus pulled away, their craving for nicotine more powerful that their need to stay warm and dry.

  I ran towards the bus, as if it was my destination all along. Head down I entered, noticing it was half empty and belongings on only a few scattered seats. I headed to the back of the bus and dropped down into an empty seat, leaning my head against the window, feigning sleep, bag now on my lap.

  About ten minutes later all the occupants had returned. No one noticed one extra person. No one cared. The good old English. No head count, no raising of hands to check all were present, the bus simply pulled away, leaving the car park, the service station and the charred remains of the hotel far behind, heading along the rain soaked motorway.

  To where? I had no idea. But I would never have guessed its final destination.

  25

  Expected

  The noise of the passengers stuck inside a confined space, with nowhere to go, crammed into the same seat, was complete bedlam. Added to the annoying tinny sound of loud music played over headphones, it was driving me crazy. People chatting relentlessly about menial things. Children tired and bored, wanting to run wild, were moaning, some crying. Parents voices raised in anger, telling off the children for the hundredth time. This, I reminded myself, was the reason I never travelled on coaches.

  There was an annoying smell too. It wasn’t just one smell it was a combination or many factors; the stale breath from the smokers, cheap aftershave and perfume, damp clothing and sweaty socks, and all made worse by the fact there wasn’t any windows to open, just a warm trickle from a small nozzle positioned above each seat – completely inadequate.

  The small televisions positioned every ten or so seats, was playing the 2003 movie, The Hunted, with Tommy Lee Jones, Benicio Del Toro and Connie Nielsen, a film few were watching. The volume was far too loud, but not loud enough to cover over all the other sounds. Every time the bus hit a bump or when the driver revved the engine when about to overtake, the television would turn to static, taking maybe five seconds to return to normal, lines running upwards distorting the sound and picture.

  The irony of the films name wasn’t lost on me.

  There was a continuous line waiting to use the toilet, even though we had just left the service station. The line mainly comprised of young children, simply wanting to get away from their nagging parents.

  I continued to keep my hood up, but undoing the zip a little, not wanting to look out of place, or just downright odd. But I kept my face pointed out the window. Not really being able to see anything apart from a grey blur, because of the large spray of mist the bus wheels were whipping up. Every now and then the image would have a smudge of colour, as a car shot past.

  I had no idea where the bus was heading, but it was bound to be somewhere busy, somewhere I could blend into a crowd and simply disappear.

  I was constantly worried that a voice would say, “Hello, Jacob.” And he would be sat next to me. The horrible smile fixed on his face.

  I needn’t have worried because eventually, what with the boring grey blurry scenery, the constant stream of white noise that the large wheels made against the wet motorway, and the steady rocking movement of the bus – not to mention the accumulated heat of numerous passengers – along with the fact my coat was still wrapped around me, I fell fast asleep.

  *

  The next thing I knew I was jolted awake. I was lying on the cold hard tarmac of the motorway, with the rain striking my face. I was coming around from one of my weird dreams. I was confused and cold. Jagged forks of lightning flashing all around me.

  It took me a few seconds to understand what had happened. The bus had crashed! I should have known it would, from the moment I had stepped on it.

  The rain was pelting down hard, blurring much of my vision. To my right was the large grey shape of the bus. It was lying on its side, its wheels still turning, the engine revving loudly. The engine suddenly died, accompanied by billowing greasy grey smoke from the large silver grill. Silence and stillness dominated. Only the sound of the pouring rain could be heard, slapping hard against the dark tarmac, mixed with the constant rumbling of thunder far above.

  I was confused; he hadn’t turned up and caused this. Then what had?

  I was now on my knees, looking down at my hands – covered in blood. As I watched it was being diluted and washed away by the rain. My mind was spinning.

  Fuck!

  I slowly climbed to my unsteady feet. Looking around I could see other people staggering about. A few were even running around the motorway. Drivers on the other side of the reservation were stopping coming to their aid. The people seemed hysterical. Then again they had just been in a horrific crash.

  Items and personal belongings were scattered everywhere.

  And bodies.

  A small child was floating facedown in an inky deep puddle on the side of the road, her small arms and legs akimbo; blood was soaked into her small pink jumper – the position was otherwise known as dead mans float. A teenager lay on his back, neck and legs twisted into unnatural positions. An older woman – whose dress had been ripped off, and only had underwear on, was sat up against the side of the bus, her head missing on one side. She still held a severed arm in her death grasp. How she had ended up there was anyone’s guess.

  Glass had fallen from the shattered windows like the fallen rain; it was everywhere, making a million reflections from the dazzling lightning, as if a vault load of diamonds had been sprinkled on the ground.

  A loud screeching sound caused me to spin around. A car skidded past, going way too fast in the heavy rain; he hadn’t seen the bus until it was too late. The red car skidded past, missing me by mere inches; I could feel the wind of it passing my face, heading directly towards the stationary bus. The car struck it directly in the rear, the bus had tipped and skidded along for at least a hundred meters, but keeping the same direction.

  The car slammed into the large motionless object, metal rendered, more shattering of glass, as one of the passenger in the car went through the front windshield, like a test dummy he crumpled against the solid rear of the bus, and tumbled to the road like a sack of potatoes. Then in slow motion the car started moving backward, pushed away by the impact velocity. But before that had chance to come to rest another dark coloured car skidded and hit the red car side on. The new arrival then flipped, spinning in the air, just like a high budget movie. In slow motion it tumbled, seemingly cutting a path through the downpour of rain. It landed on its roof and continued to flip, finally coming to a halt on the hard shoulder.

  Everything was so surreal.

  Ragged flashes of lightning, for a split second, lit up the dark night. The heavy rain looked like it was momentarily frozen in it’s downwards surge. A frozen colourless horror image.

  I just realized it was night time.

  My mind tried to comprehend. I had slept for hours, for most of the day. But because of the early nights it could be four or ten o’clock, I had no idea.

  Now some of the survivors of the bus crash were falling over the top of the bus, having to climb out the broken windows and lower themselves down to
the wet asphalt.

  The impact of the second car knocked the two people off balance who were trying to climb to safety. One dropped head first ten foot to the road. I couldn’t hear the crack, but I could imagine it, as his head struck the concrete. He didn’t move again. The teenage female jumped down, now hugging the motionless figure. Both soaked through to the skin in seconds, looking more like victims of a shipwreck. They were only a meter away from the dead woman in her underwear.