Blood on the Motorway Page 9

  They drove for hours, searching Sunderland for easy prey. They got their first demonstration of Baxter's propensity for violence when they had their first refusal. A man said he had to go and search for his family and received a swift baseball bat to the knees, before being set upon with a flurry of kicks. They left him by the side of the road, a broken and bloody mess, left for dead for having the temerity to walk round the wrong corner at the wrong time.

  After that, Baxter and his men dropped any niceties when picking people up. Tom couldn't for the life of him think what they planned to do with them. By now Baxter had to be carrying at least twenty people in the three buses.

  They carried on in the same way for hours, driving around and collecting people, although their own minibus didn't get any fuller. There was total silence on the bus aside from a few coughs and wheezes, and the occasional sob. The convoy crawled along at a slow pace, its path blocked by wreckage, which they snaked around as best they could.

  Out of his window Tom watched the endless parade of carnage, so much death that it numbed his senses. Cars burned out, houses reduced to smouldering ruins and a never ending slew of bodies. That Tom was already so immune to the sight of them turned his stomach more than their twisted faces did, so he closed his eyes and rested his head against the window.

  He must have fallen asleep because when his eyes reopened the sun had turned an ominous red and was receding over the tops of the houses. The convoy had ground to a halt.

  Oak and Wiry both jumped out of the minibus together. Tom blinked himself back to consciousness and looked around to see what was going on. Baxter and his men had found a middle aged couple walking along the side of the road. Perhaps they'd even had the misfortune of flagging the convoy down. Tom couldn't hear anything but the body language was plain enough. The man had pulled the woman behind him, and his hands were out, pleading. Baxter and his men had surrounded their prey.

  The rest of the minibus's inhabitants moved forward to watch. The man fell backwards with a shove, and one of Baxter's men grabbed the woman by the throat, pulling her away. She clawed at the man's face and he dropped her. Oak raised his bat.

  A crack rang out as the wood connected with the woman's face, the force of the swing knocking her backwards. Her body collapsed against a wall, broken and dead.

  At this the man let out a howl, a sound of utter desolation which wrought the air. A loud pop cut it off, as Baxter drew his gun and shot the man in the face. The man's body fell backwards, as dead as his partner.

  'Ohgodohgodohgodohgod,' the woman behind Tom started to chant. Beside him Leon retched. Panicked cries issued around him as Oak and Wiry made their way back to the bus. It dawned on Tom they'd missed the best chance they might have had to get away. He looked at Leon, his friend's ashen face staring back in utter disbelief. He looked back at the crumpled bodies on the street, then at Baxter getting back into his jeep. Oak and Wiry were back now, Oak's bat smeared red.

  'You see that?' Oak asked, turning to his captives. 'Let that be a lesson to all you cunts.'

  They started moving again, silent, save for the sound of gentle sobbing.

  * * *

  When the convoy finally pulled to a stop, night had long since fallen. The prisoners on the bus had not managed any sleep. They stared out of the windows at the total darkness outside, but when the convoy pulled up as one they looked around to see what fate awaited them.

  In the moonlight Tom saw what looked to be a motorway service station. Had they made it as far as Scotch Corner? Memories came back of his first drive to the north east, when his Dad had sat opposite him over a stale motorway service meal and told him flat out that he didn't plan on ever venturing that far north again. He'd kept his promise too. He'd have given anything for his father to be here now, though. He'd know what to do.

  Baxter's men were exiting their vehicles now. Oak got out to join them. Tom had hoped they might get a chance to make a run for it, but Oak turned to Wiry and grunted at him to stay and watch them. Baxter held court with his men, gesticulating this way and that. He sent some of the men to extract fuel from the dead petrol station, while others were ushered into the main hall.

  Next to the service station was the outline of a budget hotel. Oak returned, yanking open the side door. 'Out,' he barked.

  Tom followed the other prisoners off the bus and soon they formed one large group with the other captives, standing in the dark together, shivering with cold and fear. Tom and Leon hardly dared exchange glances.

  In front of them stood Baxter, flanked by two of his cronies, each scanning the crowd for trouble like it was second nature to them. Tom remembered they were dealing with trained killers. What hope did he and Leon have?

  'Now,' Baxter said. 'You probably think me a monster. That's fine. Maybe I am. But someone needs to take charge. I have worked in some of the shittest holes this world has to offer, and I've learnt one thing. Leadership is not about making friends. It's about being in control. Some of you will not like me being in control, but there's nothing you can do about it. So we're going to keep moving, keep finding survivors, and we will rebuild this country.

  'For too long this country has laboured under the illusion of freedom. You know what freedom really is? It's a fucking lie. Democracy, human rights, all horseshit. If we're going to get through this, you need to learn that. And trust me, you will learn.'

  Nervous glances went amongst the crowd. Tom heard Leon mutter something under his breath. Baxter continued.

  'We're going to stay here tonight. I know you're tired. We don't know if the water will be working, but if it is, take a shower, take a bath. We will try and sort out some food for you.

  'But, and I cannot stress this enough, don't think about running. If any of you try to leave, or you give me or my men any trouble, I promise you you'll regret it for the brief time you can call the rest of your life.'

  He stopped and stared at the crowd, as though daring them to challenge him. When no response came, he turned and headed to the building.

  Baxter's men jostled the crowd, ushering them toward the Travelodge. They shuffled in line, through the big double doors and into total darkness.

  'We'll stick together,' Leon said.

  Tom nodded, then remembered Leon couldn't see him. 'Okay,' he replied.

  The air was thick with the smell of death, putrid and dank, and the mutterings from their fellow captives were like a ripple of fear on top of the stench.

  'I've got keys,' came a voice ahead of them. A small light flickered on the ceiling, and Tom had a key thrust into his hand. He looked at it in the dim candlelight, room 205. He wondered how the hell he was even going to find it.

  They were past Baxter's men now, making their way along a corridor, the crush of people not so heavy now.

  'Leon?' Tom asked.

  'I'm here, buddy,' came a voice behind him.

  'Any idea where your room is?'

  'It started with a two, so I'm guessing the second floor.'

  'Me too.'

  Doors opened and closed around them. Murmurs of panic ran through the crowd and the occasional stumble made the crowd lurch back and forth. Someone called out they had found the stairs and they headed upwards.

  On the second floor they spent an interminable amount of time trying keys in doors until Leon happened across a correct combination of lock and key.

  The room was lit by the thinnest glimmer of moonlight, but after the pitch black of the corridors it was enough. It was a small room. There was one double bed, which they both sank onto. Together they stayed like this – inert, silent, for hours – until finally Tom forced himself up. He looked around.

  'No minibar,' he said.

  Leon sat up. 'Fuck. I really could drink an entire set of miniature bottles of assorted spirits right now.' He got off the bed and stood up, took a step and immediately stumbled against something.

  'What happened?' Tom asked.

  Leon bent down and lifted up a suitcase with a grunt.
<
br />   'Shit,' Tom said. 'There was someone staying here.'

  'Where are they now?' Leon asked.

  'Restaurant? Bar, maybe?' Tom replied.

  Leon moved round the bed. 'Or,' he said, moving to the bathroom door. He tried the handle but the door remained shut.

  'I'm not sure I want to see what's on the other side of that door,' Tom said.

  'Me neither,' Leon replied. 'But I'm also not sure I can sleep in here without knowing. Besides, we might want to at least try to wash at some point.'

  He kicked at the door, but it didn't give. On the third attempt there was a crack, and the door flew open. The bathroom was pitch black and filled with a smell of decay so severe it made them both retch, and step backwards.

  Leon fished around in his pocket and removed his lighter. 'Fucking hell, that smell.'

  Tom pulled his sleeve up to cover his mouth, but it had negligible impact. Leon moved into the bathroom, retching again, and hit the lighter. It flared up bright against the dark.

  The light danced across the surface of the water in the tub, dark and blood tinged. The bloated corpse had tilted a little, so one dead eye stared accusingly at them. One bloated arm pierced the surface, black and swollen.

  'Jesus,' Tom said under his breath, backing out of the bathroom.

  Leon followed, pulling the door closed behind him. 'You can have the bathroom first mate,' he said.

  'I think I'll give it a miss. Jesus, that fucking smell.'

  'I know what'll sort it out,' Leon said, and started fishing things out of his pockets. Rizlas, tobacco, and a tiny ball of cling film.

  'Fuck man, you've had weed on you this whole time?'

  'Yeah,' Leon said. 'You can thank me later. But first, you can make yourself useful.'

  'Oh yeah?'

  Leon pushed the suitcase over to him. 'If I'm not mistaken, that was a fella rotting in our bathtub, so maybe we should see if there's anything useful in his suitcase. Then, maybe we take this spliff and go have a look to see if your room is a little bit less corpsey.'

  Tom nodded, and pulled open the suitcase. There was a bag of toiletries, so he pulled out the deodorant and gave the place a quick spray. Clothes, a dead laptop, nothing of much use. He looked at the clothes. Business stuff, gym stuff, but it was clean, which was more than he could say for his own sweat-soaked attire. He closed the suitcase.

  He pulled the key out of his pocket, emblazoned with the number 205. 'What number room is this?' he asked.

  Leon lit the spliff and pulled his own key out. 'Um, 213.'

  'Okay, so mine must be reasonably easy to find.'

  As they navigated the corridor by lighter flame they heard the occasional noise seep out under the closed doors, usually muffled sobs, and the wheels of their dead man's suitcase trundling along the corridor.

  A loud crash came from somewhere, maybe the floor below, but it was enough for them to freeze in their spot. Leon let the light go out, but no further noise came.

  Tom's room was a mirror of the previous, except this had two single beds and no corpse in the bath. Being on the other side of the building, however, there was less moonlight to see by. Tom threw open the curtains.

  'Shit, look at the sky,' he said. He'd never seen the stars stand out so vividly. 'No light pollution.'

  'Maybe this is nature's way of stopping us from destroying her,' Leon said.

  'Well if that were the case she could've taken the likes of Baxter too,' Tom replied. He looked at his friend. 'Leon, what the fuck are we going to do?'

  'We're going to get the fuck away from that lunatic,' Leon replied, handing the spliff to Tom.

  Tom pulled on it, feeling the tension seep out of his body as the first tendrils of smoke worked their way into his lungs.

  Leon opened the suitcase and tipped the toiletries bag out onto the bed. He went through them, picking out the nail clippers. 'I don't think they'd do much damage,' he said. 'Fuck, there's nothing useful here. So how do we get out of here?'

  'Beats me,' Tom replied. 'Maybe we could make a run for it. Late at night, Baxter's men will be tired too. Maybe we can slip out undetected.'

  'These are mercenaries, fresh back from a warzone. You have to imagine they're pretty well drilled in controlling an area like this.'

  'Maybe we wait and see if anyone else has a go, see what happens.'

  Leon nodded his agreement. 'In the meantime, let's check the water.'

  Turning the taps brought about a sudden shudder in the pipes, but no water. A moment later it spluttered through. The shower was dead and the water ice cold, They took turns to strip down to their underwear and wash themselves with tiny flannels and complimentary soaps. Tom could still smell the accumulated sweat and filth on himself, but felt marginally more refreshed.

  Back in the main room, Leon had sorted through the clothes in the dead man's suitcase. As Tom came back in, his friend held up a suit.

  'Very dapper,' Tom said.

  'Yeah, but I don't know if I fancy trying to make a daring escape across woodland in a tailored suit,' Leon replied.

  'James Bond manages it.'

  'Yes, but neither of us are James Bond.'

  'Fair point.'

  Leon put the suit down and fished out tracksuit bottoms, T-shirts, and jumpers.

  'Good job this guy is a gym nut,' Tom said, pulling out the dead man's membership card from his pair of tracksuit bottoms. 'Sorry, was a gym nut.'

  'Shame he was the same size as most of Baxter's goons,' Leon said, looking at the over-sized jumper sleeves which engulfed his hands.

  'At least we'll be warm.'

  They both lay on the beds, Tom's thoughts drifting to several daring escape scenarios, some involving him somehow rescuing the entire group from their dastardly captor. He was somewhere in the netherworld between thought and dreams when the sound of machine gun fire brought him back to earth.

  They both ran to the window. About two hundred metres from the building lay a splayed corpse, half of its head missing. Tom recognised the clothes from one of the boys on their minibus.

  'What happened?' he asked.

  'He ran, he got shot,' Leon replied. He turned and kicked the bed in frustration. He hobbled a bit, conjured a raft of expletives, and sat down on the bed.

  'Well now we know,' Tom said.

  'Yeah, great, so we know we're fucked. Wonderful. I feel all positive and warm with the glow of knowledge.'

  Tom lay back on the bed, his head swimming. Maybe if they hid out in the room, the convoy might leave without them? Unlikely. Baxter was bound to do a head count.

  'Well, I'm going to have a shit,' Leon said. He stumbled off to the bathroom, making sure it was still empty with a brief flicker of the lighter before pulling the door closed behind him. Tom lay back down and closed his eyes.

  A loud crash brought him back again, this time close by. A scream, another loud bang and the sounds of splintering wood. Someone was kicking in the doors.

  Leon reappeared from the bathroom. They both stood by the door, eyes fixed on it as they awaited the inevitable pounding.

  It never came. What they heard was far worse.

  After a few minutes they recognised the sounds for what they were, the anguished cries of a woman in pain. Once Tom realised what was happening his stomach turned and he retched, except there was nothing to bring up. He watched as Leon instinctively went to the door, but pulled his hand back from the handle. Leon looked to him, but Tom could only look to the floor.

  The silence was horrifying, punctuated only by the occasional scream or sob. Tom felt wretched, every thought in his head telling him to go to help the woman, to do something, anything. But he couldn't move. Tears rolled down his cheek long after her cries died out and they heard footsteps retreating down the hallway.

  He felt like a coward.

  He was a fucking coward.

  The fact he was too terrified, too ashamed, to even bring himself to go and offer even a fraction of help to someone in need, that cut him even deep
er. In his shame and misery he buried his face into the pillow and began to weep, wanting the nightmare to end.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  DEATH LETTER BLUES

  Burnett looked out across the moors. Bathed in the early evening sun, the chill of the autumnal air bit into his arms. He didn't care. He'd driven around for two whole days looking for a ghost, and found nothing. A few potential punters for Tana and the Priest, some unsavoury behaviour, and two corpses that dated from after the storm, but nothing with the hallmarks of his man.

  He wondered how they were getting on back at the sanctuary, and batted away the suspicions that his killer was there now, laying waste to them all. He'd head back there, probably, but he wasn't in any rush. Tana could look after himself, and they had guns. For now he wanted to stare out at the Moors.

  A lifetime ago he would drive out here with his wife, and they would sit and look out at the bleak majesty of the Moors. She would dance for him, twirling and spinning and singing ever so slightly off key about Cathy coming home. He had loved those moments. This was before he ruined her life, or maybe it wasn't. Maybe he'd ruined her life the moment he walked into it. He couldn't help what happened, any more than he could make the sun set with his hands, but he understood how hurt she had been. It had been ten long years since he'd had the courage to admit to himself who he really was, and nine since he'd reached the point where he could no longer keep it from her. One foolish night in Hull had forced his hand, and he'd had to break it to her over a call from a police station, rather than how he'd wanted to do it. But there wasn't a good way to tell someone you loved that you were living a lie and forcing them to share it. She'd walked away from him and he'd never seen her again without a solicitor present.

  He guessed she'd be dead now, judging by the devastation he'd seen over the last few days. Driving around Yorkshire he'd seen thousands of bodies, and only a handful of survivors. The entire infrastructure of the country was dead, that much was clear. The electrical network was down. The phone lines were too, and there'd been no sign of police, government, or military in the last forty-eight hours. As a veteran of the police, someone who'd been through more than one emergency planning session in his time, he knew that if it took over forty-eight hours, they weren't coming. There were no knights in shining armour-plated vehicles coming to save the day. They were on their own.