The Path to Destruction

by Rebecca Fernfield

  THE PATH TO DESTRUCTION

  A World Torn Down Series Book 4

  Rebecca Fernfield

  THE PATH TO DESTRUCTION

  A WORLD TORN DOWN SERIES

  BOOK 4

  By

  Rebecca Fernfield

  Ebook first published in 2017 by REDBEGGA LIMITED

  Copyright REDBEGGA LIMITED

  The moral right of Rebecca Fernfield to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  www.rebeccafernfieldauthor.com

  rebecca@rebeccafernfieldauthor.com

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  Created with Vellum

  To Safi, Evie, Harrison, Mia and Jacob. For our future.

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  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Author Notes

  Also by Rebecca Fernfield

  Chapter 1

  Three Peaks Farm, Northumberland

  Cold light brightens the sprays of rosebuds and tendrils that cover the duvet pulled up high around Justin’s neck. Cassie dips the flannel into the bowl of warm water and wipes it across his brow. His eyes flicker open and he smiles, the crinkles now deep around his gaunt face. A sinking sensation rides through her belly as she smiles back and takes in the sallowness of his complexion, though a flush is rising in his cheeks.

  Footsteps sound heavy on the stairs and Becca opens the bedroom door then leans in. “Will you change the dressing, Cassie?” she asks from the doorway, her breathing heavy.

  The sinking in Cassie’s belly gripes. “Yes, of course,” she replies and smiles up to Becca’s worn face. The brightness in her eyes seems lost to the pain of the last two weeks. She turns again to Justin. The warmth of the room is a welcome relief from the cold through the rest of the house, but the air is cloying and stale.

  “Thank you!” Becca returns with a sigh.

  “Did it live?” Cassie asks as she takes in the woollen welly socks, pulled up high on Becca’s calf, a reminder of the woman’s labours through the night. Becca pushes back the straggles of hair that fly loose from her scraped back ponytail, and Cassie notices the first grey spreading at her temples.

  “Yes!” she returns with an exhausted sigh. “Celie and Harry are with it in the outhouse.”

  “They’ll love that,” Cassie says with a smile. “New born goats are the cutest.”

  “Kids.”

  “Huh?” Cassie responds with a frown as she reaches for the basket of clean bandages and antiseptic.

  “They’re called kids—baby goats.”

  “Oh, yes—I remember now. Well they amaze me—how they can be born in the freezing cold of a snowstorm and still live.”

  “We’re lucky Zak found her otherwise she could’ve died. He’s turning into a proper shepherd.”

  “Oh, that’s good to know. We all need to do our bit,” she adds and turns back to Justin.

  He lies still in the bed. His breathing is regular, but his face is ashen as Cassie pulls back the cover to reveal his bandaged chest.

  “He’s asleep again,” she says as Becca turns towards the landing.

  “Is he?” she asks, the thread of pain in her voice unmistakable. “I have to go back out now. I just wanted to check on him. See … see if he was any better.”

  Cassie hears the struggle in her voice and her heart hurts. “Perhaps he is,” she lies. “His colour looks a little better today.”

  “Perhaps we should let Sebastian’s wife see to him?”

  “What can she do?”

  “Sebastian says she’s a healer. She can lay her hands on him and make him better.”

  “Hah!” Cassie exclaims though her voice is soft. “Becca, do you really believe that?”

  “Well … Sebastian says that she has good energy. He was telling me about some of the people she’s helped and-”

  Justin coughs then splutters and a groan, deep from within his belly, rattles in his chest.

  “He needs a doctor, Becca. Not some quack charlatan.”

  “Sebastian’s not a charlatan, Cassie,” Becca retaliates. “He’s the closest thing we have to a doctor around here and his wife-”

  “Yes, I know—she’s a healer—but I think that Rick knows more about medicine than Sebastian—he’s served in the forces and … seen stuff.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, and he says Justin needs a doctor.”

  Justin coughs again. Cassie turns back to him and strokes her hand across his brow. His skin feels clammy, hotter than in the morning, and a flush is rising through his cheeks. “Is it too hot in here?” she asks and reaches again for the damp cloth. Laying it over his forehead she takes the thermometer kept in a glass on the bedside table and gently slips it under Justin’s tongue.

  “Cassie?” Becca questions as she watches from the doorway.

  “It’s gone up, Becca. Will you fetch Rick.”

  “Should I get Sebastian too?”

  “No, just Rick,” Cassie replies unable to keep the exasperation out of her voice. Sebastian was the last person she wanted in the room.

  Chapter 2

  Fleetgate, Barton

  The charred and blackened struts of the roof’s supports sit stark against the white of the snow-filled sky as Finn looks up at the burned-out shell that had been her home—Kyle’s home.

  “I want to go in,” she says turning to Deacon as his jacket brushes up against her coat. He stares up at the ruined flat then turns to her, his eyes full of pain.

  “OK,” he says with a grim nod.

  Taking a deep breath, Finn steps into the shop. The room is open to the sky and snow lays in heaps where the fire burned through the ceiling and then the roof. Breathing in the acrid air, she looks to the scorched walls blackened with soot.

  “If we find them …?”

  Deacon sighs and she waits for his response.

  “Then we bury them.” The tightness of his voice barely masks his pain and anger. “Then we deal with Saskia.”

  Finn’s hands clench. “Yes,” she replies, revelling in the surge of anger. After the pain of the past weeks, taking Saskia out, avenging Finn and Kit’s deaths, would be something she’d enjoy.

  Glass and debris crunch beneath her feet as she follows Deacon between the warped plastic and metal of the central aisles and down to the open doorway that leads into the hallway—the place where the fire had started—where S
askia had dropped her match on the petrol-sodden carpet. Finn’s stomach lurches at the memory: of Sergei grabbing her and running through the blaze of flames, the stench of singed cloth, and the heat of the fire behind her as they struggled with the door, desperate to escape. Kyle’s voice calls in her memory. She shudders, the horror of his death imagined in her dreams, tortures her even when she’s awake. Overcome by the memories, she stops.

  The staircase to the upper floor, where she knows Kyle will be, is burned through, its spindles and bannister charcoaled with the fire. She takes another deep breath to ease the fear and puts a tentative step on the first tread. It creaks but holds her weight.

  “Finn,” Deacon says as she takes another step.

  “It’s OK, it’s holding me. It’s burned through completely further up, but I can step over that part. Deacon, I have to find him. I need to lay him to rest.

  “It’s not that,” Deacon replies as she takes another step up the charred staircase.

  “Oh?” she says, her stomach clenching at the tone in his voice.

  “He’s here.”

  “Kyle?”

  “No, sorry … not Kyle. Kit,” he replies, his voice wavering with emotion.

  Grief rides over her at his name. Deacon has spoken of him so many times these last weeks that he feels familiar – she’s grieved for him too - and the dread of seeing him …

  She takes a deep breath and holds Deacon’s gaze. “Where?”

  “Under the stairs,” he replies, his eyes shifting to the triangular space below the stairs. “He must have fallen through.”

  “He tried to save Kyle and Lina,” she says stepping back down to the floor and standing next to Deacon. She can’t look at the space beneath the stairs and instead turns to Deacon. His face has drained of colour and a pained frown furrows his brow. She can feel the pain leaking from him as he stands, holding himself stiff, at her side. She slips her fingers through his and he returns the gentle pressure of her grip then drops his head.

  “He was all I had, Finn. All I had,” he says with emotion.

  “I know.”

  Unable to keep the tears from welling in her eyes, she wraps her arm around his back, leans her head against his chest and pulls him to her, hugging at his pain. She stands holding the giant of a man, patting at his back as though comforting a small child, and lets him take her comfort and her strength.

  Barely daring to look, she turns to face the debris beneath the stairs as he relaxes a little, his emotion in check. Her eyes fall on the blackened mess, but she can’t make out what’s there.

  “Are you sure?” she asks as her eyes skip across the pile. “I can’t see … I can’t make out … a body.”

  “Yes,” Deacon replies wiping the palm of his hand across his eyes and steps closer to the broken staircase and points towards the corner.

  She follows his hand and her breath holds tight in her chest as she sees Kyle. Turning away, she buries her head against Deacon’s chest, the rough fabric of his coat a welcome relief to the horror in her mind, and his arm slips over her back.

  “Will Kit be the same?” she asks not wanting to hear the reply.

  “I don’t know … I guess so—if we can find him.”

  “How’re we going to get Kit out?”

  “There’s a shed at the bottom of the garden. When I got the ladders, I saw some tarpaulin—we can use that.”

  “I’ll go,” Finn says, relief flooding over her at the thought of stepping outside, away from the cloying and acrid stench of the shop. The melted plastic of the burnt carpet is crisp beneath her boots as she quickens her pace to reach fresh air. She stops at the outside door and turns. “We’ll find Kyle? When we’ve taken Kit, then we’ll find Kyle?”

  “Yes,” Deacon replies, though he doesn’t look up. “We’ll find Kyle.”

  A thud sounds from inside the shop as she walks down the path to the shed. Just focus on the job! Get the tarpaulin. It’ll soon be over.

  Deacon pulls at the debris that covers what remains of Kit’s charred body. Reaching for a shard of tile, he throws it with force behind him, the wrench in his muscles matching the ferocity of shattering clay as the tile hits the wall. Kit lies recognisable only by his boots and one portion of unburnt clothing. Deacon squats and looks down at his own boots, stares at the scuffed brown leather, and is silent, pushing away the horror from his mind. Finn grunts from the yard, and he follows the noise down the hallway to the garden. She’s making her way back with an unwieldy bundle of blue plastic. It should be enough to wrap Kit in, and Kyle if they find him.

  “You got it?” he calls as he watches her, glad of the diversion from his gruesome task.

  “Yes,” she calls back, her smile tight.

  He stands and walks to join her before she re-enters the shop. “Lay it out here. Let’s see what we’ve got before we take it in there. It needs to be big enough.”

  “Sure,” she returns and dumps the heavy fold of plastic onto the snow. It lands with a clat and Deacon bends to unfold it. Finn crouches to take a corner.

  “Thanks,” he returns, appreciating her willingness to help. He hasn’t known her long but in her he recognises a woman who isn’t afraid to help. She reminds him of Jules in some small ways. Not the way she looks, Finn is dark haired, broad-shouldered and lean, where Jules had been petite, a blonde elf. She’s strong in the way that Jules was, vulnerable, but strong and he’s glad to have her by his side.

  They fold out the blue plastic over the snow. “It’s big—perhaps too big?”

  “Yes, I think you’re right. We should cut it,” Finn replies. “I’ll check in the shed for a knife or scissors.”

  “Sure,” Deacon replies. “If we cut it in half there’ll be enough for them both.”

  He watches as she falters then continues to the shed. She’s hurting just as much as he is.

  Minutes later and she returns, an oblong of silver in her hand. “Stanley knife,” she says proudly.

  “Great,” he replies and takes the retracted knife from her hand.

  The plastic cut, he returns to the hallway and Kit’s body. With Finn at his side, he stands in silence, his focus blurred as he readies himself to move the charred remains.

  “Are you ready?” he asks as she holds his arm.

  “Yes,” she replies, although she doesn’t sound convincing.

  Laying the sheet across the hall floor Deacon squats parallel to Kit’s shoulders. His face is covered by a layer of scorched fabric and for that Deacon is thankful. “You OK to take his legs?” he asks.

  “Uhuh,” she replies.

  “OK. I’m going to take his shoulders, lift him and slide him across to the sheet. OK?”

  “Yeah,” she agrees though he can see she’s struggling.

  “Are you sure you’re OK? I can do this on my own,” he offers with compassion. “You know … perhaps I should do this on my own, Finn.”

  She remains silent.

  “Next to Jules dying this is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”

  “I want to help, I do … but …”

  “I know,” he replies. “Listen. Let me move him. You go back into the shop and I’ll tell you when I’m done. You can help me carry him out. OK?” he looks to her for acceptance. Her face is deathly pale and for a moment she wobbles on her heels. “Finn! Steady. Turn away to the wall. Take a breath and go into the shop.”

  “Yeah,” she says and her hand trembles as she steadies herself, her hand splayed over the blackened floor. “Thank you,” she rasps as she turns onto her knees.

  Deacon stands and pulls her to her feet. She sags against him. “Come out into the fresh air,” he soothes and walks her to the back yard, sits her on the snow-covered coil of tubing he’d fallen on in the blast, then returns to Kit.

  The next minutes are a torture and he sighs with relief as he folds the second flap of plastic over the boy’s body. With Kit’s face hidden from him forever, he looks down the hallway to Finn. She’s sitting with head
on knees and he realises, despite her strength, she’s not up to searching for Kyle. He looks up to the landing, assesses the stairs, gathers the spare tarp into a fold, and makes his way to the bottom of the staircase.

  “Deacon!”

  “Stay there, Finn. I’ll fetch him.”

  Silence for a moment and then she calls again. “Be careful!”

  “I will,” he replies and takes another step.

  The wood cracks and the staircase shifts.

  “Deacon!”

  He takes another step. The wood creaks again, but seems firm. As he reaches the middle of the staircase, the wooden strut beneath him drops to the left and he knocks against the wall. Plaster cracks and crumbles around his feet.

  “Deacon, come down!” Finn calls. “It’s going to break.”

  As he lifts his foot to move upwards, the step cracks and he plummets, feet first, into the space beneath the stairs.

  Finn screams as Deacon jerks against the steps and falls through the hole. Wood clatters against the wall and drops onto him as he lands with a thud in the debris. He looks like the dead boy as he lays there and she turns away, her stomach retching.

  “I’m OK,” he groans as he shifts among the debris and pushes himself up to a crouch.

  “Are you hurt?” she asks gathering herself together and takes a step towards him. Her foot knocks against the wrap of blue plastic and she recoils in horror. “Oh!”

  “Not hurt,” he gasps clutching at the back of his head.

  He stands, his head rising through what was the staircase, and she just wants to hold him. He’s the only thing they’ve got now—her and Lina—the only man on earth left who could take care of them.