The Path to Destruction

by Rebecca Fernfield

  Saskia steps back from the door, her hand trembling as adrenaline starts to flood her system. Who the hell did they think they were, cutting through her chain and coming into her yard? She strides past Loz as he stares wide-eyed, his hand clutched around the barrel of farmer Crawford’s rifle.

  “Gimme that!” she says with a rasp as she passes him and yanks the rifle from his hands.

  “I-”

  “My warehouse. My rules,” she snarls and picks up a hammer from the end shelf. It’s heavier than it looks and drags her arm for a moment before she pulls against its weight and throw it at Loz. “Catch,” she says laconically. He ducks and simultaneously puts out his hand to catch the flying lump hammer, but misses and it hits the breeze-block wall next to the door. “Idiot!” she mutters.

  “Sergei!” she shouts down the stacked aisles. A box of cereal, jutting at an angle, catches her eye and she stops to push it back into place. Relieved at its tidiness, she continues to strut down between the towering shelves, passing a slanted blue staircase on wheels, and towards the gas fire and settee near the office. Sergei stands in the doorway, his face grim, a crossbow in his hands.

  “They’re here?” he asks.

  She nods with lips pinched. “Yes, they bloody well are.”

  “The ones from the football club?”

  “Yep!”

  “How many?”

  “Five.”

  “Three against five.”

  “Yep. But we’ve got the advantage.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Well, for one thing, there’s me,” Saskia says with a cruel smile. Sergei nods in agreement. “And for another, by the looks of it, they’ve only got hammers and spanners, whilst we,” she holds up the rifle triumphantly, “have got this.”

  “And this,” Sergei adds in response holding up the crossbow clutched in his grip.

  “Exactly.”

  A knock comes at the door. How very dare they!

  “I’ll give them this—they’ve got balls.”

  “They soon won’t have!”

  “Hah! Sis, you’re one mega-bitch.”

  “Why thankyou darling brother,” she replies with a smirk.

  The knock comes again at the door.

  “Are you gonna answer that?” Loz shouts from near the door.

  “Come back here, Loz,” Saskia shouts and walks to the exit, and the sound of banging.

  “Stand back,” she says checking the rifle then smiling with satisfaction. Good and loaded! She points the rifle and, as the door reverberates with another set of thumps, she pulls her finger against the trigger. At the third rap she squeezes. The barrel punches back into her shoulder. Staggering back on her heels, she totters towards the shelf, and a man yells from outside.

  “Gotcha!” she grunts, knocking against the shelf. Sharp metal jabs into her shoulder and her anger riles. Ignoring the pain, she pushes herself back onto her heels and strides to the door. It rattles again in its frame, and she lets loose another shot.

  “Saskia!” Loz shouts from the back of the warehouse as the butt of the rifle kicks back into her shoulder. “They’re at this door!”

  “Coming,” she shouts as sunlight shines in through the door’s newly shot hole.

  “Saskia!” he shouts again.

  She turns to run down the aisle as she glimpses movement through the door—the blue denim of a pair of jeans.

  “Go hold them at that door,” she shouts to Sergei as she passes him on her way to Loz. She hadn’t thought they’d know about this one—it was so close to the perimeter fence and hidden from the road by the shrubs. “They must have gone round to find all the exits,” she says as she runs past Loz. Banging sounds again from the door and, like the one she’d just blown a hole through, it reverberates. From the far end of the warehouse the huge doors that block the massive opening where vehicles can load and offload begins to rattle with thumping fists.

  “I thought you said there were only five.”

  “There are! They’re just spread out. We’ll each guard a door,” she shouts as the banging continues. Loath to fire again at the door and breach the strength of the barrier, she stands watching it rattle as the banging from the other side echoes. As she watches, a blade slices into the door and cuts the corrugated steel as though it were paper. A wooden pole stands resting against the grey of the wall and she smashes it down against the intruding blades as glass shatters. She turns to see the office window broken and a figure standing on the other side, a long metal rod in hand. That’s it. No more Mrs Nice! She drops the wooden pole, transfers the gun back to her right hand then runs towards the office and the figure now trying to haul itself over the sill. As she reaches the doorway and raises the rifle, a biker in fresh black leathers, helmet still on, steps over the sill and into the office. She takes aim. He turns to stare at her and raises his hands. She squeezes the trigger and lets him have it. He staggers back, knocking his helmet against the wall. Another figure appears at the broken window and she swivels to turn the gun on him. He ducks, disappearing behind the wall. Hah! They’d not reckoned on her. Let them try to take her stuff. Let them just try!

  Loz’s shout has her swivelling on her heels again, and she turns from the doorway just as the man she’d shot jumps back up. Her attention captured by his lumbering frame she looks from him to Loz standing in front of the side door, hammer raised as it opens and another helmeted figure walks in. She lets a shot loose at him. Missed! She turns back to the man in front of her. He’s bearing down fast and, as she raises the rifle to shoot, he grabs the barrel. She pulls the trigger as he holds it away from his chest and the shot fires. Plaster powders as it hits the wall, and splinters of wood and cork spray as the notice board loses a chunk of corner. It slumps, dangles from its hook, then falls to the floor.

  “What’s up love? Not pleased to see me.”

  “Get out of my warehouse!” she seethes.

  “Your warehouse, is it? Looks like you’ve collected all the cakes for yourself,” he says looking out beyond the open door to the stacked shelves.

  “What of it?” she snaps.

  “And you don’t want to share with your neighbours?”

  “Pah!” she spits. “What neighbours?”

  “Why me and my friends of course,” he says, smiling at her through the visor of his helmet. His voice is muffled, but perfectly clear and she understands his meaning well enough. He wants her food, probably wants the warehouse to himself. Well, he’s not going to have it. As he pulls again at the barrel of the gun she pulls back hard, building the resistance between them then smiles and let’s go. He staggers back. Stupid arse! Just like at school when the other kids would pull at her, call her ‘Sauerkraut’ and snipe at her. She’d lull them into that false sense of security then, wham! They’d fall back and smash to the ground, run off and cry to the teachers about that nasty Saskia. Well, they didn’t know the half of it. She turns, runs to the fire and the warm air that surrounds it, then reaches down. The crossbow’s metal is smooth in her hand, smooth and very reassuring. She grabs a handful of bolts, slips them into her pocket, then loads the weapon. She may not be an expert with a gun, but the crossbow? Well, the crossbow is a different kettle of fish. The crossbow is her weapon of choice. County champion for three years running, she’d seen off contestants five years older than herself. The only thing that had stopped her going to the Olympics was that stupid Mike—and he’d paid for his mistake. Her movements are fluid and swift as she simultaneously loads the bolt, raises the crossbow and swivels to face her attacker. He’s stepping through the doorway. He doesn’t stand a chance. The bolt released, it makes a deadly trajectory through the air. She listens for that beautiful, nearly imperceptible whistle. It hits home—straight to the heart. The man staggers. Bet he doesn’t know what hit him! Stumbles back into the office and falls with a thud to the floor with its brown carpet tiles. Saskia watches with delight as his helmet bounces against the floor, his arms at his side and legs splayed, and notes
the perfect positioning of the bolt’s fletching—just exactly where she’d planned for it to lodge. She reaches into her pocket for another bolt, loads it, and turns to the warehouse. Sergei is at the side door, crossbow loaded, ready to fire. Loz stands with his hands in the air facing a small group of men. She grinds her teeth as she watches them look around at the stacked shelves. No, no, no! She takes aim at a man in black protective biker gear with white reflective patterns and fires. The bolt’s flight is swift, straight and true. It lodges in the man’s arm, in the dead centre of the leopard’s face that snarls at her from its Kevlar sleeve. She smiles again as he staggers. The men turn to look at her. She can’t see their faces but imagines their horror, their shock, at this tiny woman picking them off one by one.

  “Yes, boys,” she snarls. “You chose the wrong lady to pick on!” She raises the crossbow and they scatter, leaving Loz to stand gaping at her. The man with the speared leopard stares down at his arm then staggers after the others.

  “Oh no you don’t!” she calls and looks down the crossbow’s sights. Let’s see you hobble. Her heart flips as she pulls the trigger and a thrill of adrenaline shoots through her as she watches the man lurch, the bolt stuck firmly into his calf. He staggers and falls. She strides out to him, kicks at his calf as she reaches him. His scream is muffled as the point of her stiletto makes contact with his injured flesh and, as he turns, she locks onto his gaze. The visor is opaque with his breath. Saskia crouches and lifts it and stares into the fear in his eyes. “Thought you’d come and take my food didn’t you! Well, that was your first mistake. Your second was underestimating me.” She stands and reaches again into her pocket. The shaft of the bolt is smooth and reassuring against her fingers and slots perfectly into place. Silent and deadly just like her. Holding his gaze, she smiles at him, then laughs as he rocks his head from side to side. “No? You don’t want it?” she teases as he raises his good arm, palm flat against her. “Too bad ‘cos you’re gonna get it.” Her finger squeezes against the trigger and her head explodes with pain. She staggers forward, grunts, and the crossbow fires.

  As the intense white clears from her vision she turns. A man, broad-shouldered and clad in black leather, with an open-faced helmet and a bandana pulled up against his lower face, stares at her, a thick metal rod is gripped in his hand. Sickness waves over her and she totters, her vision blurred. Sergei calls to her though his voice sounds somewhere on the edge of her perception, oddly muffled. Still grasping the crossbow, she reaches down to her pocket and fumbles for a bolt. Her fingers miss and slide against the fabric. She staggers back, the pain unbearable in the back of her head, spreading out to her ears and down her spine. Warmth spreads down her neck. Unsteady, she puts her hand to the back of her head and her fingers slide against something warm and sticky. Blood!

  “Saskia!” Sergei calls again and then he’s beside her, his huge arm around her shoulder, scooping her up into his arms and running with her down between the towering shelves. They seem to be bearing down on her, bending and lowering. Her arm over Sergei’s shoulder, the crossbow dangles to the floor, scraping across the concrete.

  As he stops then stands her upright, she’s overwhelmed by a wave of nausea and retches. Vomit sprays across the sofa as she stumbles forward, knocking the gas fire over. Sergei’s arm wraps around her again.

  “Saskia!”

  “Sorry!” she replies. “My head. He hit my head.”

  “Yes.”

  The pain in her head is intense and she can make little sense of the chaos around her. Figures are running towards her from between the stacks as the smell of singed hair rises to her nostrils. Looking down, flames lick at her boots.

  “Fire,” she says through the haze of understanding. “I’m on fire.”

  Chapter 17

  Dan watches as the smoke billows from between the two large warehouses that the gang of men had run into ten minutes before. He’d watched as they’d cut through the chains, hidden from view behind the shrubs that surrounded the industrial unit across the road. Running into Lina had been, well, good, but bad. He’d realised again that he was public enemy number one. All he wanted now was a quiet life with Monica, but if the survivors found him, then he knew they wouldn’t rest until they’d had their pound of flesh. Fearful, he’d jumped behind the hedgerow. Curious, he’d watched as the bikers pulled over and begun to break their way into the locked compound. He didn’t want to set off for home until he was sure they’d gone. If he set off and they started up the hill, they were sure to see him. When he got back, the first thing he’d do was convince Monica that they needed to leave for another village, or perhaps even a farm. Yes, a farm would be perfect. They could grow crops and keep livestock. He didn’t have a clue how to do any of that, but it couldn’t be rocket science and if they passed a library on the way then there was sure to be something on looking after chickens or gardening. They’d figure it out. He’d figure it out. He’d make them both safe—for the rest of forever.

  The smoke billows black against the bright blue of the sky, a twisting canker in the clear air. He watches fascinated by its movement and waits. They’d have to leave soon and then he’d make his move—back home, back to Monica.

  Deacon stands at the treeline, the same place he’d stood when he’d watched Finn drag Kyle, bloodied and injured across the snow. There was no sign of Dan, but at the warehouse something was going badly wrong if that plume of smoke was anything to go by. Either that or they’d lit a bonfire and were burning rubbish, perhaps bodies? Stepping out from the trees he runs across the wide expanse of field. The grass, unmown since last summer lies in browned hummocks, the fresh growth green and pushing through the winter-dead blades. If this was his, he’d have sheep on it. That was something he’d suggest to Finn and the others, that they start a small farm. There were bound to be livestock around in the farms among the hills. Once the weather warmed up, he’d take Finn out on the bike and they could search the area, perhaps even find somewhere better to live. His thoughts wander to Finn as he turns to leave. He could see the disappointment in her eyes as he’d held Lina’s elbow tight in his grip. He regretted it now, but at the time he’d been consumed by the rage he tried so hard to keep locked down. Once he’d dealt with Dan, and Saskia, then he would be free of it. He’d apologise once he got back. In his mind, his eyes lock to Finns and she smiles back at him.

  Shouts from the warehouse break into his reverie and he stares at the scene ahead. Black smoke is billowing up the side where the warehouse meets the boundary fence as well as from the side that opens out to the space between that and its neighbour. The fire must be raging inside. As he watches, two figures run out and away from the smoke, stopping just shy of the grass. Saskia and Sergei! He can’t tell for sure, but she looks injured from the way Sergei is holding on to her and she’s leaning into him. As he watches another figure stumbles out of the warehouse and wanders towards them then stands and looks back towards the warehouse. Flames lick at a broken window.

  Dread sinks like a stone in his belly. If there’s a fire raging in there, and Saskia is out here, it can only mean that everything is burning. Everything—all the food she’s greedily stashed from every house in the town. From what Finn has said Saskia has taken every last scrap of food and now it’s all burning to ashes.

  Jackson pulls Aaron along the floor as the smoke curls and billows above them. As he lays him outside, away from the entrance where the air is clear he shouts instructions at the others then goes back in to find Abe. He went in through the office Tom had said. He wasn’t out here with the others so he must still be inside. He wasn’t about to leave him behind, not without a fight. Pulling his bandana down to his chin he takes gulps of fresh air then covers his mouth and nose again before running back into the building. The shelves are blazing and the fire is spreading along the boxes and stacks of tins. Running down the gap between the first stack and the wall he makes his way to where he presumes the window that Abe climbed through would come out.

/>   He runs low, crouching below the smoke and stops as he reaches the open door to the office. Abe lays on the ground, his visor down, a black angel splayed against the brown carpet tiles. In his chest, central to where his heart will be, a metal rod sticks out by an inch. Jackson grits his teeth as he pushes forward from the doorframe. Lifting the visor, he can see that Abe is dead. His eyes are glazed and his skin has taken on a deathly pallor. He can only have been dead for a few minutes, but in those few minutes he’d gone from a man in his prime to a corpse.

  “Sorry, mate,” he says with feeling.

  The place was burning down and if he left Abe here, he’d burn with it. The thought horrifies him, but he’s a practical man. Leaving him here to burn is probably for the best. He’s had a gutful of disposing of bodies—they had to be buried or burned—it was the only way to keep disease at bay. A thud comes from inside the warehouse, and he turns to look as the metal shelving buckles then breaks with the heat. Burning boxes crash to the floor sending sparks up high. He turns back to Abe, takes off his gloves, reaches for his eyelids, and gently pulls them down.

  “Rest in peace,” he says quietly as he pulls the visor over Abe’s face then stands and walks to the broken window. Raising his leg to the sill, he takes a last look at Abe, then looks through the open doorway to the fire. Flames lick at the door’s frame and is beginning to spread across the floor towards Abe. His stomach lurches, and he pushes off from the sill landing squarely on the other side. Smoke belches from the open door at the side of the warehouse, but through the smoke, standing on the grass, he can see three figures: a small, blonde woman, a huge broad-shouldered man, and another, but skinny and gangling. They’re staring at the warehouse. As he turns to seek out Aaron and the others, the woman sees him.

  “I’ve spent the last four months collecting all the food in this town,” she screams as the flames leap skyward. “Every single last tin of beans and bag of rice is in that warehouse.” As he turns to face her she staggers towards him. Blood has spread over one side of her head and sits stark against the blonde of her hair, matting it to the side, and her ear pokes out. “You idiot!” she calls as she steps closer, her face screwed tight in rage. “I’m going to make you wish you’d never been born!”