THE SAVAGE ROAD
A World Torn Down Series
Book 2
By
Rebecca Fernfield
Copyright 2017 Rebecca Fernfield
www.rebeccafernfieldauthor.com
[email protected]
www.facebook.com/rebeccafernfield
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Author’s Notes
Dedication
To Safi, Evie, Harrison, Mia and Jacob. For our future.
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Chapter One
Barton, Twenty-Two Days After Breakout
Finn’s breath comes hard as her feet slap against the path.
“Kyle! The passage—get into the passage,” she hisses at the boy-come-man pounding the path in front of her.
She grabs hold of the canvas of his dark jacket and tugs at him, pulling him to the side of the path, closer to the building. “Here—this one,” she hisses again and darts into the dark tunnel between the terraced houses. Her footsteps echo. She tries to land with a softer foot and springs out again into the light. Kyle’s footsteps sound behind her. On either side, back gardens stretch to a bank of trees. The nursing home! That must be the end of the nursing home’s garden. No way was she going in there—seeing the wrinkled and gnarled old grannies sat round in their chairs had always been as close to death as she could bear, but now that they were all dead! She grabs the low concrete post threaded through with rusting wire, and jumps into the garden, narrowly missing a dog’s drying turd. She looks around, anxious, if there’s a dog here it could give them away! Kyle thuds next to her as he vaults over the fence then springs forward, narrowly missing the stinking piles of dog faeces that litter the concrete yard behind this house.
“Did we lose them?”
“Shh!” she replies, stepping up against the back of the house, her jacket scratching against the bricks of the wall, and listens for the pounding of feet.
Shouting sounds again in the air, but it’s not as close as the last time.
“They’re further away,” Kyle adds, his head cocked, listening. A dog barks in the distance.
“Yeah, I think so.”
Another dog howls in response.
“Listen those dogs! Doesn’t it creep you out?”
“What?”
“The dogs. The way the barks and howls fill the air—it’s like that’s the only noise left.”
“I guess.”
“Gets on my tits—the incessant barking.”
“Well, I guess they’re lonely or something.”
“Hungry you mean. It’s not just Murray we’ll have to watch out for. Them dogs are getting vicious. Did you see the way those two were tearing at each other yesterday?”
“Shh! Can you hear that?”
Kyle is silent again, his head cocked, listening. Footsteps clat beyond the path on the road outside. Finn pushes up against the wall, fists clenched tight, heart pounding harder in her chest. A man shouts.
“We’ve lost them! Come on. I’m not spending my day chasing after a couple of kids. Don’t care what Murray says.”
“Yeah! He can chase them himself if he’s that bothered,” the other replies, though his voice isn’t convincing.
Finn listens as the footsteps and voices fade, echo through the air of the empty street, bouncing off the bricks and dark tarmac of the roads.
“I think they’ve gone,” Kyle says, turning to smile down at her.
“Yeah, I think so, but it sounds like they’ve got it in for us!”
“That Murray always was an evil b-”
“Is! Was Murray Cindy’s dad?”
“Yeah. She hated him. I remember her talking about him—said he was mean and she couldn’t wait to finish college so she could get a job and get her own place.”
“I remember. Didn’t he beat up Jack once?”
“That’s right! Said Jack had scratched his car with his scooter. He’s a right nut job.”
“We’d best stay out of his way!”
“Sure, but where are we going to get food from then? He’s not letting anyone into the supermarket.”
“Well, there’s that shop down Far Ings—Betty’s the sandwich shop. We’ll take that over.”
“What about that little supermarket at the end of Fleetgate? We could try that one—see if anyone’s taken it over and-”
“And if not, we’ll have it,” she replies smiling up at him.
“Sounds like a plan,” Kyle returns. “And it’s even better than the supermarket!”
“Hah! Why?”
“Because there’s a flat above that shop. We can live there, easy.”
Chapter Two
The open space of the motorway behind him, Deacon slows as he travels along the empty road, the light dappling through the trees that line either side. The ache in his back tells him to pull over and he slows again as he reaches a familiar opening through overgrown shrubs, a small sign the only indication of what lies beyond. Broken by a stretch of white stones, the bank of shrubs and trees gives way to a clearing where a large wooden hut sits with its back to the spreading woodlands. Deacon pulls in, tyres crunching over the white gravel. The clearing is empty but for three cars. He groans. So, even here, in the tranquillity of the wood-side café there’s … debris. At least the cars are parked together. What is it—was it—with people that they always had to park together, even when there was plenty of space? He’s given up checking for life, and had a gut full of rotting corpses.
Ignoring the cars, he pulls up beside the wide hut. The slatted sides are weathered and grey, the shingle roof dark with the early signs of rot. The hatch is open. Damn! It was probably empty—picked over by any scavenging animal coming out of the woods. Bike in neutral, he checks the fuel gauge then turns off the engine, kicks out the stand and dismounts, the heat from the engine hazing in the sun. Next stop would have to be for fuel.
He looks around, wary, checking for signs of movement. Looking up, the leaves are dark against the blue of the sky, branches nodding in the breeze. Reassured by the stillness surrounding him, he pulls off his helmet and checks again between the trees, listening, turning to check his surroundings. The silence and the stillness have an oppressive calm. He kicks against the stones laid in the clearing, scuffing an earthy mark, damp soil sticking to the edge of his sole, satisfied at the clack and scratch they make. Startled, a bird, a pigeon by the looks of its shape and colouring, flaps across the clearing to a higher branch beyond the cars. Deacon’s stomach g
rowls. There’d better be something here, his provisions are low, the panniers either side of his bike nearly empty.
Crack!
Startled, Deacon looks to the forest and peers deep into the trees, his eyes following the dirt path through the woods. He’d been here plenty of times and always looked forward to the shade and cool of the forest walkway. He’d stretch his legs after the long ride and find a tree to take a piss against, the tea drunk at the last stop finally making its way through. That familiar ease has disappeared. The forest seems daunting now that the world is empty—its people dead, or hiding, or waiting and ruthless in their fear. Perhaps the noise was a deer, or a rabbit? That was something he’d have to do—figure out how to catch himself some fresh meat. He turns from the forest and back to the open hatch of the café. A man couldn’t live on cake. Stepping up to the platform, he bends in through the open hatch and frowns. The door is locked from the inside, a slim bolt, useless against any real intruder, is shut fast into the outside door’s wooden frame. An inner door stands at the side of a tall fridge—there must be an exit door. Jumping back onto the gravel, he makes his way around the back.
He pushes down the side of the cabin, the grey of its weathered slats greened as the scrubby undergrowth pushes closer, threatening to overgrow the path. At the back is a small clearing, the ground bedded down with wood chips. A chunky blue barrel sits at the corner, catching the water that trickles down from the guttering. Across the clearing, in the far corner, a pile of charred logs sits among a heap of ashes. Curiosity piqued, Deacon walks across to the pile and kicks at it. Embers spark. His belly clenches. He looks around, alert, heart thudding faster now. The dead he’d kind of expected - the ones that had pulled in to rest and died as they waited for the fatigue to pass - but the living! He swivels on his heels, eyes flitting among the trees, checking against the corners of the wooden building. Nothing. Perhaps whoever it was had been here last night and was now gone, the ashes were nearly dead after all. He turns back to the pile, scrutinizing the area. A large sawn log is laid close by. A warm seat in the evening, perhaps? To the side—bones! Looking up again to the forest, he takes a step in for a closer look. White and nobbled sticks sit at the side of the log. Bones, too big to be rabbit or squirrel, have been picked clean of their flesh—cooked flesh. His stomach gurgles with hunger. Whoever ate this was chowing down on deer! A true survivor then. Someone who knew how to hunt, unless they’d got lucky or scraped up some Bambi roadkill. He grimaces at the thought.
Crack!
He jerks, twisting towards the woods, searching into the trees. Movement. A flicker of black against the bark. The hairs on his neck prickle. He pats at his jeans’ pocket for reassurance; the keys to his bike are safe against his leg.
“Who’s there?” he shouts, looking around the camp for an implement, anything to wield as a weapon. “Show yourself,” he calls into the woods as he walks back towards the café door. He’ll show them he’s not afraid—no man, or woman, can get the better of him—not now. He reaches down for the long, thick branch stood up against the café’s back door and grips it in his hand, the scratch of the bark reassuring in his grasp, and stands firm, stares beyond the thick trunks of the trees, and waits for the flicker of movement. His heart thuds hard against his breast bone.
The trees remain silent, still but for the slight bowing of branches as the wind blows through their leaves. He stares a moment more at the tree where the patch of black had caught his eye, then turns back to look around the small area where the flesh-picked bones lay among the dead fire’s ashes. His stomach growls again. Whoever was in the woods better stay out there until he’s had his fill—if there’s any food left in the café. He swivels again on his heel and walks with determined steps to the back door—better be open—and pushes the handle down. He smiles as the latch slides back in its bracket and the door swings open to expose a small room with cupboards and a fridge. To the left is an ugly, badly-constructed block with a door labelled toilet. Scuffed linoleum lines the floor, marked by traces of dirt and bark. Ignoring the scent of stale urine, he opens the cupboard. White boxes sit neatly along the top shelf, boxes of plastic cutlery and paper napkins. No food. He closes the door, stands, and pulls open the long door of the tall fridge. It’s empty but for a catering sized tub of margarine. Got to be some food in here—unless that one in the woods ate it all! He opens the door to the front of the café and light floods through the open hatch. He scours the shelves and counter tops, wiping his hand across the crumb-sprinkled counter. The bits are sharp against his fingertips—stale.
“It’s all gone,” a voice speaks from the room behind.
Startled, he turns to the voice, steps back and knocks against the counter.
“The food—the cakes—it’s all gone. But—but I’ve got a drink left if you want one,” the boy holds out a glass bottle filled with a pink liquid. Deacon stares at the grubby hands clenched round the bottle, the dirt-rimmed nails proffering the bottle to him. “Do you want it?”
The boy stands before Deacon, hesitant, and he notices the shake in his hand, the dark circles beneath the smooth skin of his eyes.
“No. No thanks. You keep it. Looks like you need it more than me,” he returns holding the boy’s gaze.
“I’m OK,” he answers though he withdraws his hand and slips the bottle into the pocket of his oversized jacket.
“How long you been here?” Deacon asks.
“Since we drove in.”
“We?”
“Yeah. Me and my dad,” he replies looking out through the open hatch to the small collection of cars parked across the gravelled clearing.
“Your dad?” Deacon queries, looking around for signs of the man.
“Yeah,” the boy replies his eyes lowered. “He’s out there,” he jerks his head towards the trees.
“Out there?”
“He died. When we got here. He was picking me up from Uni and we were on our way back home to pick up mum and get away from the towns. She thought we could escape the plague or whatever it was that was killing everyone. She thought if we got into the country—into the fresh air it wouldn’t get us.”
“I’m sorry.”
Deacon watches the boy as he hangs his head low, his own memories of death scratching at him. He closes his eyes, breaking the spell of the boy’s sad face and looks again at the cars.
“Is he in one of them?” he asks looking at the cars, wondering which one, the blue, red or black, he would be in—probably the little blue, beat-up VW given the scruffiness of the teenager standing before him.
“No. I buried him.”
“Oh.”
“He told me to. He knew he was dying as soon as he pulled in so he got out of the car and went into the fields to die in the sun. Said it would be easier for me to bury him out there.” He looks out of the open hatch to the field of golden wheat beyond the cars and the hedge of hawthorns.
Deacon follows his gaze and nods. His jaw clenches as he swallows down the emotion rising in his chest. Toughen up! “You the one who lit the fire?” he asks, gazing out over the fields again as he blinks away the tears that threaten to fill his eyes.
“Yep. There’s no food left here—I ate the last bit of cake four days ago.”
“Hah! Had all the cake and ate it too!” Deacon returns, then regrets his clumsy attempt at a joke.
A shy smile appears on the boy’s face and he looks at Deacon. “Yeah! I did. Sorry.”
Deacon returns his smile and walks back out into the dappled sunshine of the back yard. “You catch what you eat, or was it in the freezer?”
“No! I caught it.”
“Resourceful!” he says as he looks around, noticing the evidence of the boy’s camp. “What was it?” he asks kicking at the remains of the boy’s last meal.
“Roe deer and rabbit.”
“You caught a roe deer and a rabbit!”
“Yep,” he says smiling. “Only cooked the deer so far though. The rabbit’s still hanging.”
>
“I’m impressed. It looks like you can look after yourself pretty well then.”
“Yeah, I can. I know how to survive. Mum—she loved going off-grid—that’s what she called it. She taught me how to catch rabbits and I’ve learned a load of stuff off the net. It’s dead now though.”
“Dead?”
“Yeah. The internet. I used to watch survival stuff on there and on the telly, but none of that works anymore.”
“No. I guess it doesn’t. I’ve not tried it since … since I left home. Listen. Looks like you can look after yourself and there’s no food here so … so I’ll leave you to it. I need to find a petrol station …” he trails off as he turns away from the boy.
“No! Don’t go,” he shouts.
Deacon turns. He can’t stay. There’s no point in staying and he doesn’t need a kid dangling off his neck. “Listen, kid. You’re doing OK-”
“Please! You’re the first person I’ve seen in two weeks—apart from the bodies in them cars—you can’t leave me here on my own.”
“Well, I can’t take you with me!”
“Why not?”
“Well-”
“I can help you. I can hunt and cook. I can help to keep us alive. You came here looking for food, didn’t you? There’s no food in these places any more. Surviving isn’t about finding food in packets. To survive you’re going to have to learn how to catch your own meals. I can teach you. Please. Take me with you. Or,” he falters, looking around the camp, “you can stop here with me.”
“Stop here? No-”
“I’ll make a fire—we can roast some more of the deer—I’ve got more—butchered it yesterday—it’s in the freezer—it’s still cold in there and the meat is still fresh.”
Hunger gripes at his belly again and Deacon relents. “OK boy. Light your fire and cook your meat, but after that I hit the road.”
Chapter Three
12 Heron Close, Barton
Murray rams into her again, the tight warmth of her wet space pulling at him as the orgasm finally overwhelms his senses. He arches his back, his groan guttural, fulfilled, his fingers gripping the wooden headboard, glad she can’t see his face as he loses himself to ecstasy.
The Savage Road: A post-apocalyptic survival series (A World Torn Down Book 2) Page 1
