The Savage Road: A post-apocalyptic survival series (A World Torn Down Book 2)

by Rebecca Fernfield

“Telly,” Harry replies.

  “So, do you think those dogs out front have been hunting and now they’ve been called back home?”

  “I guess.” he says frowning. “They have gone wild haven’t they—now there are no people left to look after them.”

  “Yes, I guess they have,” Dan returns, his belly clenching again though relieved at the thought of the dogs out front disappearing. “C’mon, let’s get this shifted.”

  As Rick grabs hold of the shroud too, the body begins to slide across the gritty herringbone bricks of the yard and they pull it to the open door of the shed. It smells musty as they step inside. The brick floor is uneven, worn with age, and the dampness from the soil beneath rises up to make the place cold. On one side, a window lets in enough light to make out a thick wooden workbench scattered with tools and a variety of shelves stacked with oil cans and tins of paint.

  “Over here,” Dan says nodding towards the far wall, free of clutter. “We can put him next to the wall.”

  “Will they all fit in here?” Harry asks as he gives a final lift and pull of the shroud, and the body is laid up against the cold wall.

  “Yeah, I think so. We can line them up next to each other. The last one will be next to the door though, but at least they’ll be safe in here.”

  “Ooh! You sound like some weird serial killer collecting bodies!” Harry says.

  “You do come out with some stuff!” Rick laughs at the boy’s peculiar comment.

  “He’s got an overactive imagination,” Dan laughs back. “C’mon, we’ve got four more of these to shift.”

  As they leave the cool of the shed and step out into the moonlit yard, scratching sounds at the wooden gate that leads out to the passageway. Dan freezes and holds Harry’s arm, stopping him from moving forward.

  “Shh! Listen,” he whispers as Rick stops next to him.

  The scratching noise sounds again and the door rattles against its frame.

  “Is it the dogs? Are they at the gate?” Harry asks anxiety rising in his voice.

  A whine and the gate bangs again. Dan stares at the arched wooden door, watching it judder. The twisted iron handle clinks as it knocks against the wood.

  “Do you think they’ll break through?” Harry asks twisting free of Dan’s grip on his jacket.

  “No, I’m sure they won’t,” Dan returns mesmerized by the juddering door.

  They stand and listen to the scratching, watching the door shake. A dog whines, scratches at the concrete path on the other side and then the noise stops. They listen as claws tap against the concrete and the sound fades as the dog moves away. Dan sighs in relief.

  “It’s gone,” he says turning to Rick. “It sounds like it’s gone back to the front.”

  “Must be a dumb dog then,” he returns.

  “Why?” Harry asks frowning up into the soldier’s face.

  “Because if it had gone twenty feet further down that path it would have been able to jump over the hedge.”

  “Oh!” he says turning to look past the brick outhouse to the garden.

  “The dog’s gone,” Dan says, stomach gnawing as he looks to the four remaining bodies lying next to the wall of the house, “we’d better get on and move those.”

  They walk back to the house and pull again at another body’s shroud. This one is lighter than the last—the woman they found in the small room at the back, Dan remembers. She’d been laid in bed, in her nighty, a long cotton one with a frilled collar and sleeves down to her wrists. She didn’t look out of place in the Victorian-style bedroom with its iron bedstead and trailing ivy wallpaper. A rose-patterned ewer and bowl standing on the chest of drawers completed the picture. He’d tried not to look at her blackened lips and neck ringed with buboes as they’d wrapped the stained bedsheets round her and slipped her to the floor, but it was impossible not to see them, and they appeared again in his mind, floating over the white shroud in front of him. He swallows hard at the nausea rising in his belly and pulls. C’mon lad! Focus! Stay on task! His father’s voice intrudes, loud in his head. He’d hated him for always pushing him, but now he’s thankful for the words, he can focus on his hate for his father and forget about the body he’s dragging across the floor, the woman he’d killed. Oh, shut up, Dan! Just shut up! He pushes down at the thoughts—forcing them away and looks again at the shroud. Just pull it across to the shed. That’s all you need to think about.

  “Are you ready, Harry?” he asks as the boy grabs the corners of the white sheet.

  “Yep.”

  “Pull!” he says quietly and the boy strains, tugging at the sheets, his body bending as he anchors his feet to the ground and pulls. “This one’s easier,” he says quietly.

  “You’re getting the hang of it,” Rick offers in praise as he takes the other end of the shroud and lifts the corpse. “I think we’ll be able to carry this one. She’s not so heavy.”

  “It’s a woman?” Harry exclaims. “I hadn’t thought about it being a wo-”

  “What is it?” Dan asks at Harry’s abrupt silence.

  The boy stands frozen his mouth open. Dan follows his gaze. At the corner of the brick outhouse is a large wolf-like dog, it’s head down, hackles raised. Behind it another dog appears, black and almost hidden in the shadows. From the pathway, the tapping of claws on the concrete sounds loud. Harry gasps as another dog appears to the left at the low fence that divides the yard from the neighbouring garden.

  “Don’t move,” Dan commands shifting his gaze from the dog at the low fence to the two snarling dogs walking out of the shadows at the corner of the brick outbuilding, fighting the urge to turn and run back to the house. He knows he wouldn’t make it if they decided to give chase and he has to protect Harry. He can’t let them hurt the boy.

  “We should go in!” says Harry, fear strong in his voice.

  “Yes,” Dan replies. “Lower the body slowly—no sudden movements,” he continues as the dogs move slowly forward, their hackles sharp peaks between their shoulder blades.

  The larger black one moves across the entrance to the shed where the fat man lies shrouded. It sniffs at the open doorway.

  “They want the bodies,” Harry exclaims as it steps toward the threshold.

  “I think so,” Dan agrees.

  The dog sniffs again then turns back to the yard, staring in their direction.

  “I’m not sure that they do,” Rick adds as all three take another step closer.

  “We have to get inside!” Harry says anxiously.

  “Just don’t make any sudden movements,” Rick reinforces as Harry takes a tentative step away from the body towards the kitchen door.

  The larger dog growls. The kitchen door bangs open.

  “You’re taking your time,” Lina says as she steps down into the yard. “Oh,” she gasps in shock.

  The dogs, startled, take their chance and pounce forward, snapping and snarling as they close in. Harry screams and darts to the side. Dan watches as the large black dog shifts its direction to follow him. Without thinking Dan lurches after the boy, blocking the dog’s attack. The blow from the dog as it lands on his back sends him hurtling forward and he lands hard against the blocks of the yard’s floor, his head only narrowly missing contact with the stone steps. The dog’s hot breath reeks in his nostrils as he pushes back with all his strength turning himself over, his arm batting at the dog’s head. Behind him he hears a yelp as Rick struggles too.

  “Get something heavy” he hears Rick shout, but can’t tell if it’s a direction for him to follow or for someone else. His attention is consumed by the snapping spikes intent on biting into his flesh.

  He bats again at the dog as it bears down on him. If he could only get back on his feet he’d have a chance. He grabs the dog’s fur, digging his fingers into the flesh around its neck as it snaps at him again, its reeking breath hot against his cheek.

  A flash of silver and metal crashes down on its head. Startled, the dog turns its head, pulling against Dan’s grip. He digs
his fingers harder into the scruff of its neck and locks them around its collar, the small metal identity disc taps against his hand. A figure stands over them, arms raised, heavy-based frying pan in hand, and crashes the metal down on the dog’s head again. Finn! The woman lets out a guttural scream as the dog snarls, and smashes the pan against its skull. It yowls and pulls against Dan’s grip.

  “Rick!” he hears Harry’s scream as the sound of growling and scuffling increases. Footsteps pound across the yard as the dog pulls against him.

  “Get up, Dan!” Finn shouts in command as she raises the frying pan once more.

  Recognising that the dog is no longer on the attack, he stands, keeping a firm grip around it’s collar, and forces the dog to the floor, lays on top of it and pushes its head to the ground, forcing it into submission. A mug flies through the air and smashes where the smallest of the dogs stands growling. It looks ready to attack again, but yelps and retreats a little further as plates hurtle across the yard and smash at its feet. At the kitchen door Lina stands with Harry and Celie. Harry grunts as he grabs a cast iron trivet from Lina and hurls it through the air. It lands on the head of the smaller dog. It yelps then turns and jumps over the low hedge and back into the neighbouring garden.

  The dog kicks at Dan as he holds it down. He presses at its head again, pushing it firmly to the ground. It yelps, but quietens, submissive under his powerful hold. The dog no longer an immediate threat, Finn darts across to Rick, pan raised, just as he lifts the dog off the ground, its head held tight against its collar, teeth gnashing but away from his body.

  “Do you want me to hit it,” Dan hears Lina ask as he pushes again at the huge dog under him.

  “No, it’s OK. I’ll deal with this one,” he returns. “Go back and help Dan,” he continues. As Dan looks up, Rick walks past, the Staffie’s back legs kicking, its eyes wide and staring, as he carries it front forward towards the brick outhouse. He kicks open the door, an old-fashioned toilet gleams white, its black cistern high on the back wall, and throws the dog in. It yelps, and scrabbles to right itself as Rick slams the door shut, making sure the latch is firmly in place.

  “Can I have some help over here,” Dan asks with relief as Rick turns back to the yard.

  Rick gives him a grim smile. “Sure,” he says as he walks towards him and stoops to grasp the large dog’s collar.

  “Dan are you ok?” Cassie asks as she steps towards him. “Are you hurt?” He shakes his head and she turns to the soldier. “Rick, are you hurt?”

  “No, Cassie. Don’t fret,” Rick replies as Dan stands, keeping a firm grip of the dog’s collar.

  “Get the others inside,” Dan says turning to Cassie. “It’s too dangerous out here.” He turns to Rick. “To the outhouse?” Rick nods in reply and both men drag the dog towards the brick shed, squeezing its collar around its neck, keeping the head firmly under control.

  Both dogs safely behind the outhouse door and latch in place, they return to the kitchen. Dan closes the kitchen door with a heavy sigh of relief.

  “Oh, Dan,” Cassie says with emotion and wraps her good arm around his waist and nestles into his chest. He kisses the top of her head and a surge of love for her fills his heart. He’d make it up to her—all his mistakes—he’d be the husband she deserves.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Sleeping bag tucked under his arm, Deacon fastens the buckle of his pannier and makes his way to the back of the coffee shack where Kit sits poking at the fire. Oblivious to his return, long hair covering his face, he sits on the plastic chair Deacon brought round from the front.

  “You look deep in thought,” Deacon says as he steps up to the fire.

  “Yeah,” he replies monosyllabic.

  “Care to share them?” he asks as he rolls the sleeping bag out on the black plastic bags he’s cut open up and laid across the dirt floor.

  “Just thinking about my Mum,” Kit replies.

  “Oh,” Deacon returns. “Did she … did she pass on?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Oh?”

  “I was on my way back from Uni, travelling back with my dad. We were trying to get back home, you know … after the breakout. He said he was feeling ill and pulled over. I thought he was immune. I mean, he didn’t show any symptoms and by then I think most everyone of my mates had … gone. When Dad got to the flat to pick me up he looked OK, a bit pale, but OK, but as we were driving back he started to cough and within like, half an hour, he had to pull over and rest a bit. We made it this far and then .... I tried calling my mum to let her know what had happened, but the line was dead.”

  “And you’ve been here ever since.”

  “Yeah. I can’t drive so I’m stuck. At least there was food and drinks.”

  “You were lucky. Your old man did the right thing and pulled over. Some of the others didn’t make it—looking at the damage that’s out there on the roads.”

  “Yeah, I noticed that. When we were travelling back here there was a jack-knifed lorry and about five cars piled up around it. I tried not to look, but once you’ve seen something it’s hard to take your eyes away.” He pokes again at the fire, thrusting the stick hard into the burning logs. Orange sparks flit into the air, swirl, then disappear, the light shut off.

  “What about you? Have you lost anyone?”

  Deacon sits quiet within himself for a moment as the pain takes hold of his heart.

  “Yes, my Jules,” he says swallowing down the emotion. The pain is raw as the memories prick at him. He’s taken back to their home, Jules smiling up to him as she works at the stove, chiding him as he wraps his arms around her waist and moves his hands up to her breasts as she stirs the sauce. She laughs and tells him it isn’t fair. “She was one of the first ones to die. We think … I think she got in contact with someone at the airport who was infected. That’s how they think it spread so quickly. There was this guy in the coffee shop ...” He pauses as he remembers the moment the dishevelled man had sneezed, the snot flying across them and into Jules’ face. “I think it was him that passed the virus to her.”

  “How come you survived then … if you were in such close contact?”

  “Some of us are just immune I guess. The unlucky survivors!”

  “I feel lucky,” Kit returns.

  Deacon looks up, surprised at his optimism. “You feel lucky? To be left alone … here?” he says looking around.

  “Yes, lucky. I don’t want to die! And here,” he returns, looking out into the dark of the woods, “I can survive here.”

  “But don’t you mind being on your own?”

  “Well … yes, but I’m not on my own, not anymore,” he replies, looking into Deacon’s eyes.

  “You seem pretty chilled about it.”

  “I guess I am. Aren’t you?”

  “No,” he blurts. “I’m not going to let him get away with it.”

  “Him? Who?”

  “Dan Morgan.”

  “Oh,” Kit says. “He’s the one they blamed, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, he is,” Deacon returns as the anger that consumes him returns to gripe in his belly. “Sure, he denied any knowledge of it all, but that’s just bull. How could he not know what was going on in his own labs. Someone at the top had to give the go-ahead for the virus to be made into a weapon and that someone was Dan Morgan. Did you know they found emails between him and the North Koreans! The North Koreans, Kit! One of the most unstable, vindictive and despotic countries in the world and he was in negotiations with them about the virus. Biological warfare—that’s what they called it and the virus was the weapon of choice.”

  “A weapon of mass destruction.”

  “A weapon of total destruction!”

  “How do you know he’s still alive?”

  “I just know,” he says, “and I tell you this, I’m going to make him pay—make him pay for killing my Jules.” The pain tightens in his chest and the dull headache returns. He’d get him if that was the last thing he ever did. He grinds
his teeth and seethes as the image of Dan’s arrogant face floats across his memory and a weariness waves over him. “Time for some shut-eye, Kit,” he continues. “I’m tired and I want to make an early start in the morning.” He unzips the sleeping bag and steps into it before laying down.

  “Sure,” Kit returns, pulling his own blanket around his shoulders. “Dan Morgan,” he says the words quietly and pokes at the fire again, this time with a sharp and angry prod.

  “Night,” Deacon says as he closes his eyes.

  “Night,” Kit returns.

  ***

  Rick returns to the kitchen once he has checked on all the doors and windows, making sure that each one is locked and the curtains are pulled across.

  “Did you check in the cellar Kyle?” he asks as he steps through the door, the faces sitting round the table lit by the flickering of a single candle.

  “I did,” he returns “and,” he laughs, “it was just as creepy as I said it would be.” He shudders dramatically.

  Rick puts his torch down, face upwards on the counter, brightening the room.

  “Wimp!” Celie chides smiling up to Kyle.

  “Yeah, wimp!” Harry adds.

  Kyle shoves Harry in good-humoured brotherliness. “Hey! Flippin’ cheek. There’s me risking life and limb to go into a dark and dingy cellar and that’s the thanks I get!” He ruffles the boy’s hair.

  “Hah!” Rick returns, glad that they can find humour in the situation.

  “I think it’s time we all got to bed,” Cassie says as she steps into the room.

  Rick turns to face her. The paleness in her face is still there but the sparkle of blue is back in her eyes, and even after today she looks pretty, even if there is blood staining the end of her hair and she has one arm in a sling.

  “How’s that shoulder,” he asks with genuine concern. He knows just how much bullet wounds sting and though she wasn’t shot, having a steel bolt rammed through your shoulder amounts to the same thing.

  “Not too bad,” she replies with a tight smile. “Bit sore, but you know, stiff upper lip!”