“Oh my God!”
She placed her hand over her mouth and fell to her knees, seconds after her eyes had clocked the corpse of her youngest daughter. She crawled across the carpet, on all fours, and touched the face of her deceased child. Her shaky hands inspected her fourteen-year-old. Her right hand touched something wet. She raised her hand and inspected it. It was blood. She had been stabbed in her side, but Lisa didn’t know how many times.
Why did they do this? Why?
Because she had scratched the man’s face? Because it was deemed as disrespectful?
Really?
Why didn’t he just kill her?
Because if she was dead, then she couldn’t suffer?
“My baby,” Lisa cried and dropped her head in Jemma’s lap. “My poor baby.”
For minutes she sobbed in her daughter’s lap, but then she stopped suddenly, as if somebody had a remote for her emotions and had hit the pause button.
Lisa stood up quickly and whispered, “Grace.”
She knew that her eldest had gone into one of the bedrooms before the men arrived, and strode towards the room, dreading the outcome. “Grace? Grace, baby?”
Lisa smiled when she saw that the bedroom window was open. She had escaped. Her eighteen-year-old daughter had escaped.
She walked back to the living room and sat down next to her dead daughter. She pulled Jemma’s body to her and gave her a cuddle. Lisa stroked Jemma’s hair and wept. Her weeping had been cut short when she heard the voices of men. She got up and peered through the window. It was them. She thought they had left.
They were carrying stuff, and it appeared that they had taken some things from the other caravans. She didn’t know what they had taken, because she thought she had cleaned the caravans out when she first arrived with her girls.
Three of them, including the Hando character, walked by her caravan, but the skinny character, Dirty Ian, told Hando that he’d see him later and seemed to be heading back to Lisa’s place.
“Shit.” She shuddered with fright and mumbled more, “What does he want now?”
Lisa had no idea what to do. She decided to go back to the bedroom, the way that they had left her. She didn’t know why she did this. The panic wasn’t helping her to think straight.
She went into the room and was about to take her trousers and shoes off, but the man had entered the caravan quicker than she thought he would. She quivered with fear as his steps headed to the room and opened the door to see a petrified Lisa sitting on the bed, now fully clothed.
He looked at her suspiciously and asked if she had gone into the living room yet.
“No, I haven’t,” she lied. “Why?”
He smiled, revealing his dirty teeth. “Don’t matter.”
The skinny man gazed at Lisa and produced a devilish grin that sent a shiver down her vertebrae.
“Wh-what do you want?” Lisa’s voice trembled as she spoke. “Why are you here?”
“With Hando’s permission,” the skinny man grinned, “I’m allowed to come back here for my seconds.”
Lisa gritted her teeth, with the picture of her recently deceased daughter in her head, and snapped, “Don’t you think you’ve done enough damage?”
“What can I say?” The character called Dirty Ian threw his arms up and added, “I’m a highly sexed individual. Always have been.”
“Please,” Lisa begged. “Leave me alone.”
“I’ll leave you alone once I’ve had my wicked way with you.”
“You already did.”
“No, no.” Dirty Ian wagged his finger at her and pulled a knife from the back of his trousers, making Lisa gasp. “I fucked you in the arse. Now, I’m gonna do you the traditional way.”
Frozen with fear, Lisa sat motionless as the man wasted no time and felt her breasts through her top with his left hand, his right still clasping the knife. He leaned over and kissed her on the top of her head.
“Lie down on the bed,” he ordered.
She looked up at him, her eyes soaked with tears that hadn’t fallen yet, and begged him to reconsider what he was doing.
His free hand grabbed her around the throat and yelled, “Lie down on the fucking bed! Don’t you ruin this for me with your fucking moaning!”
Lisa did as she was told, still fully clothed, and closed her eyes as Dirty Ian was over her, on all fours, and was now kissing the side of her neck. She opened her eyes slightly and gazed at his knife. She was certain that he would have to release it or put it away when undoing his trousers, and she wasn’t wrong.
She kept her eyes narrowed, and with Ian thinking that they were still closed, he shut his eyes and continued to rub his hand over her breasts, over her clothing. He slipped his left hand underneath her top, and then knelt up straight.
He began to undo his belt with his right hand, as he played with her nipple with his left. Lisa could see that the knife was lying on the bed, but she was frozen with fear.
Now! Do it now! Her own voice screamed inside her head.
This is your last chance. This is your only chance. He’s going to kill you after this. You know that, don’t you? That’s part of the thrill.
Lisa wasn’t sure that that was going to happen, but the words still echoed through her head.
Your daughter was stabbed to death by one of those guys, and you’re lying there like a sack of potatoes. Seriously?
She held out her shaking hand, almost touching the handle of the knife as Dirty Ian nibbled on her ear.
Do it! Do it! Do it! Do it! Do it!
She grabbed the handle, but Ian had seen this straightaway, noticing what she was up to. He punched her in the cheek, and tried to grab the knife, but Lisa slapped his hand, screamed out, and stabbed the point of the knife through his left eye. It wasn’t in enough to kill him, but it was in enough for him to fall to the floor and writhe around the floor, screaming in pain.
Aware that the other three were probably not far away and could probably hear him, Lisa exited the bedroom quickly and left the caravan the same way Grace, her youngest daughter, did. And like her daughter, she ran as fast as she could from the caravan site, not looking back once.
Her heart galloped and crashed against her chest, just waiting to hear male yells and then to be pursued. She was a hopeless runner. She knew that if these guys spotted her fleeing and decided to chase her, they’d catch her up with ease.
Chapter Six
Simon was outside, alone, and taking in the fresh air. He wore black combats and was also wearing a black leather belt, and a machete was slipped in it. He took a peep to his left, over at Imelda’s grave, and made the short walk over. He sat on the ground, near her grave, and raised a small smile when he saw Lambie, a cuddly toy that Imelda had found and played with, sitting against the cross that was placed on her grave. Simon had made the cross himself a couple of days after her death, from two branches and some string to keep them together.
Stay strong and keep living, no matter what it takes.
He turned to his left, and saw Dicko leaving the house and heading towards the car that was parked at the side of it. It was time to go.
Simon stood up and brushed himself down. He blew the grave a kiss, turned around, and followed Dicko to the car. Both men got in without uttering a word to one another.
“Ready?” Dicko looked at Simon Washington as he buckled himself in the passenger seat.
Simon clipped himself in, sighed and said, “As I’ll ever be.”
Dicko was armed with his trench knife, Trevor, whereas Simon had now taken out the machete and had placed it on his lap. It was more comfortable that way when travelling. They had two machetes, Yoler had the other, and these were the weapons that were taken from the three Orson intruders from a month back.
Simon had taken a belt and had wrapped it around his trousers, so whenever he didn’t need the weapon, which he hoped would be the case for the whole trip, he could place it in the belt at his side, saving him carrying it around.
/> “Let’s hope this goes better than the last time we both went out,” Dicko said with a chuckle.
As soon as he said that sentence, the image of the bearded man in his fifties projected in his mind. He was a man at the side of the road that Dicko had spotted, when he was driving around the countryside, looking for Simon after he had fled from the visitor centre. The man was average in height, had a long grey beard, and was wearing blue jeans, a black shirt and a cardigan. It was such a bizarre moment, and there had been many over the last twelve months, and Dicko couldn’t shake the image off.
“It will,” Simon said with a nod, a little annoyed that the man kept on bringing that subject up.
“You sure?” Dicko turned to his side and gave Simon a quick look. He fired the engine and selected into reverse. “Going out is a hell of a risk. More trouble could be waiting for us.”
“True,” said Simon. “I won’t run out on you. I don’t have anyone back at the farm waiting for me anymore.”
Dicko was confused by Simon’s comment, but chose to ignore it. He took off the handbrake, turned and looked over his shoulder, and reversed the car. As soon as the car hit the road and he had straightened it up, now selecting first gear, he queried Simon about the comment that he had made thirty seconds ago. He tried to ignore it, but he couldn’t help himself.
He asked, “What do you mean by that?”
Dicko pulled the car forwards and looked to the side again, looking at Simon, waiting for an answer.
“What’s that, mate?”
“About not having anyone back at the farm?”
Simon hunched his shoulders nonchalantly. “It means I have nothing to live for, now that Imelda is gone.”
Dicko was beginning to think that this trip was a bad idea, especially with Simon for company. Maybe it was too soon. “Look, if you’re going to be reckless out there, or do anything stupid—”
“What I mean is that ... I won’t bail out on you, like I did at the visitor centre. That won’t happen again.”
“Okay.” Dicko went through the gears and wondered once more if taking Simon was a good idea. He looked lost and subdued. Yes, he had lost his little girl a month ago, which affected everyone, but he lacked any emotion when he was in company.
Maybe Donald was right. Maybe he wasn’t ready.
“Do you know where you’re going?” Simon asked Dicko.
“Yeah, kind of,” Dicko snickered.
“Kind of?”
“Don’t forget, I’m not from these parts. I know the area a little, but I’m from…” Dicko paused, realising he was opening up to the man he had only known for a month.
“You’re from?” Simon said with a grin, realising that Dicko had let his guard down slightly.
Dicko smiled and said, “It doesn’t matter.” He turned left at a junction and looked at a sign that stated: Barrhead. 2 miles.
“Is that where we’re heading?” Simon asked. “Barrhead?”
“We’ll be stopping just before it. The industrial estate is a few hundred yards before that town.”
The rest of the journey was completed in silence. The car slowed down as both men could see a turn up ahead on the left. Dicko turned the vehicle onto the road called Walkers Rise.
The road was a steep and windy one, and Dicko dropped the vehicle into second so that the struggling vehicle could make the hill before dying. There were trees to either side of them as the car made the steep climb, and Dicko ‘thanked God’ when the road became flat and the vehicle entered a spacious area.
He parked in the desolate car park and buildings that used to be businesses surrounded the car park. Both men seemed relieved that the place was quiet. The visitor centre a month ago was also quiet, Dicko mentally reminded himself, trying not to let his guard down. And look what happened there.
Dicko turned the engine off and turned to face Simon.
“And now what?” Simon asked the driver.
“Now,” said Dicko. “We go and have a look around.” He was the first to step out of the vehicle and Simon seemed to take an age to follow suit.
Simon took the machete out of the vehicle, before shutting the door, and slipped it into his belt.
“Shame we can’t get some kind of holster for that,” Dicko remarked, nodding at the large blade. “You try and climb a fence with that thing in your belt and you could end up cutting your leg.”
“Don’t you worry about me, mate,” said Simon. “I’ll be fine.”
Dicko stood in the middle of the car park, hands on his hips, and managed to find something he was looking for.
“Over there.” He pointed over at a small warehouse. “I think that’s where the gas is kept.”
Simon nodded and followed Dicko over to the small building. Dicko placed his ear against the door and began to knock on it. Simon looked at Dicko with confusion, which Dicko noticed.
He explained, “Just a habit. I used to do this before entering any building, just in case. Especially in the early days.”
“The Canavars?”
Dicko laughed, “The Canavars, or whatever you wanna call them.”
Simon looked around and could see the café that was mentioned before, an office to his left, and he assumed that the hut with the petrol was the place that Dicko was trying now.
Dicko tried the door and both men gasped when it opened. Simon looked delighted, but Dicko was suspicious.
He opened the door wider and peered inside the dusky area. The place was the same size as the ground floor of his old house, but there was nothing inside it, apart from some empty containers that were lying on their side.
Both men trudged back to the car, crestfallen, and Simon asked Dicko if it was worth their time checking out the café.
“After a year?” Dicko looked furious because of the wasted journey and shook his head. “But be my guest if you think you might come across a mouldy cake or biscuits.”
“There might be tea bags in there,” said Simon. “And coffee.”
Dicko bit his bottom lip in thought and said, “It has been a while since I’ve had a nice cup of coffee. I suppose it’s worth a try.”
They walked over to the café, and couldn’t see through the dusty windows to see if there was anybody inside.
“I wonder if this door will be open,” Dicko said, and gave the door a try.
This one seemed to be locked and an agitated Dicko shoulder barged it in anger. The door flew open on Dicko’s second attempt, and both men peered inside the dark place. Tables were turned and chairs had been knocked over. Dark smears of blood were present on the floor and walls, and both men gagged as the smell hit them.
Simon stepped outside, bent over, and retched a couple of times, only liquid coming out of his mouth. He stood up straight, took in a few gulps of fresh air, and then turned around to go back inside.
Dicko stepped out of the building, holding two bags of tea bags and a tub of coffee.
“That’s all there was in the kitchens,” Dicko announced, then shut the door behind him. “Nothing else in there.”
“Really?” Simon thought that Dicko was acting suspiciously. He took a step forwards, heading for the door, but Dicko pushed him back.
“Time to go,” said Dicko. “This trip has been a waste of time. You win some, you lose some.”
“Let me go inside.” Simon glared at the man he had known only for a month.
“There’s nothing in there. What’s up? Don’t you believe me?”
“You’re acting weird.”
“Just get in the car.”
Simon felt his anger boil and wanted to punch Dicko’s lights out, but was certain he’d come off second best. He hadn’t had a proper fight in years.
“I want to see what’s in there.” Simon wasn’t for moving.
“Go ahead,” Dicko sighed, “I’ll wait in the car.”
Dicko headed for the driver’s side and took the keys out of his back pocket. He sat in and waited for Simon to return.
Dicko le
aned his head back and tapped on the steering wheel as he sang a Joy Division track. He only had to wait three minutes when Washington could be seen leaving the establishment. His head was lowered and his feet dragged across the concrete. He got in the car and sat in the passenger seat, gazing out of the windscreen and placed the large blade on his lap.
Dicko turned to Simon. “You okay?”
He received no answer.
“Simon?”
Simon gulped and said, “Just drive.”
Chapter Seven
Donald Brownstone and Yoler Sanders hadn’t said a word to one another since leaving the farm. Donald had mentioned that he needed to wash some clothes, and Yoler suggested that she should tag along. She told Donald that if he was making his way to the pond, then they might as well bring water back to the farmhouse to filter.
With an empty bucket each, and a bar of soap in Donald’s pocket, they left Helen and David alone. They were certain they’d be okay for half an hour, but told Helen to bolt the doors, just in case. Donald had a knife in his other pocket and Yoler was carrying a machete she had ‘claimed’ from the intruders a month back.
Donald looked to the side, at Yoler, and knew she didn’t like him. Maybe he wasn’t the most pleasant of men at first, he thought. He knew what he was like. He was like this in the old world, had very little friends, but now he was worse.
He opened his mouth, about to say something complimentary about Yoler, but he paused. He didn’t want to come across as some kind of middle-aged pervert.
The pair of them were still walking with large strides and were getting near the cluster of trees. Yoler took a glance to her side and noticed he was staring.
“You wanna photo?” she snapped.
Donald didn’t respond straightaway. He took in a breath and began to speak. “I know we didn’t get on in the beginning,” he began, “and you don’t really like me...”
“That obvious, huh?”
Ghostland (Book 2): Ghostland 2 Page 3
