Road of the Dead

by Kevin Brooks

  Do something.

  Now.

  I started running toward Vince. I didn’t know what I was doing, I just fixed my eyes on his back and ran at him like a madman. I had no idea what I was going to do when I got there—jump on him? bite him? kick him to death?—but it didn’t matter, anyway, because I never got near him. As soon as the rope went slack in his hands, he spun around and skipped to one side, tightening the rope as he moved, then he yanked down hard on it, jerking my head to my knees, and the next thing I knew I was sprawling on my face in the dirt.

  I couldn’t breathe for a moment, couldn’t get any air into my lungs. I just lay there, shocked and breathless, dazed and useless…

  I couldn’t do it. I’d tried. But I just couldn’t do it.

  I couldn’t do anything.

  Someone was hauling me back to my feet now. I guessed it was Sim. He wrenched me up off the ground, then Vince started reeling me in, and the two of them shoved and dragged me across the barn toward Red and kicked me to the ground in front of him. As I slowly got to my knees, Red picked up the end of the rope and shone the flashlight in my face.

  “Is that it?” he said, grinning. “Is that the best you can do?”

  I looked at him and shrugged. I was so tired of it all now. I just didn’t care. Red stared at me for a moment more, then shook his head and turned to Vince.

  “Bring the van up,” he told him. “Leave the engine running.”

  Vince hesitated. “You want me to drive?”

  “Did I say that?”

  Vince frowned at him. “I don’t understand.”

  Red sighed. “Just bring the van up to the barn doors and leave it there, then go back to the house. D’you think you can manage that?”

  Vince nodded silently, then turned around and walked away. As he opened one of the barn doors, the rain blasted in and the howl of the storm filled the air. A gust of wind caught the door, ripping it out of Vince’s hand and slamming it back against the wall. Vince pulled up his collar and stepped out into the rain, and the door slammed shut behind him.

  After a moment’s silence, Sim said to Red, “Vince is staying here then, is he?”

  Red nodded. “You both are.”

  Sim looked surprised. “I thought you said we were taking the kid to the Bridge?”

  “Change of plan,” Red said simply, looking at me. “I’m taking him somewhere else. Somewhere quieter.” He turned back to Sim. “Give me your knife.”

  “But Henry said—”

  “Henry’s not here, is he?” Red looked slowly at Sim. “You’re staying here. I’m taking the boy. You got a problem with that?”

  No one said anything for the next few minutes. We all just waited. Sim had grudgingly given his switchblade to Red, and now Red was just sitting there, idly flicking the knife open and shut…open and shut…open and shut. Snick snick snick. Sim couldn’t look at him. He couldn’t look at me, either. He just stood there leaning against the barn wall, staring moodily at the ground. I didn’t know if he did have a problem with Red’s change of plan, or if he was just pissed off because it didn’t involve him. Not that it made any difference to me. Even if he didn’t agree with what Red was doing, he wasn’t going to do anything about it. No…the problem was all mine.

  And I couldn’t see any way out of it.

  Once I was in the back of the van, that was it. If I’d been going to the Bridge, I might have had a chance, but I wasn’t going to the Bridge anymore. I was going somewhere quieter. And that could only mean one thing: Red wanted me dead. I didn’t know if it was a personal thing—just something he wanted to do—or if he was simply being practical—tidying things up, getting rid of the evidence. I didn’t know, and I didn’t care. Reasons didn’t matter. All that mattered was that Red was going to take me out on the moor somewhere, probably back to the stone circle, and I couldn’t see any way back from there.

  “What the hell’s he doing?” Red said suddenly.

  I could hear the van’s engine whining and spluttering outside.

  “Won’t start,” Sim muttered. “It’s the rain.”

  I listened harder, energized with a faint glimmer of hope. Vince let the motor rest for a moment, then tried it again. The engine whined and whirred, roared for a moment, nearly got going…then coughed and spluttered and died.

  “Shit,” said Red.

  But he needn’t have worried. Sim was right—there was nothing wrong with the van. The engine was wet, that was all. I could tell by the sound. It was probably going to start next time…

  Before I had time to think anymore, I lunged at Red and kicked the knife from his hands. He was too shocked to move for a moment, and that was all I needed. I brought my head down into his face, felt his nose cracking, then butted him again. The rope fell from his hands and I started for the door. Sim was after me in a flash, but I was running for my life now—he couldn’t catch me. Even with my arms tied behind my back, he couldn’t catch me. I was running faster than I’d ever run before. Fast and hard, pounding across the ground toward the door. Nothing could stop me. I was running so fast I was going to smash through the door without stopping—through the door, out into the yard, up the lane, away into the darkness…

  No one could stop me now.

  No one…

  I was almost there…the door was just a few meters away. I was already imagining myself crashing through it—the sudden cold rush of the rain and wind in my face, the squelch of the mud beneath my feet as I raced away across the yard…

  And then it all disappeared in a blur of shock as Sim caught up with me and hacked at my legs and bowled me down to the ground. I hit the dirt face-first again, rolled over a couple of times, and then Sim was jumping on my back and thumping me in the head.

  I just about gave up on myself then. I didn’t have anything left. I couldn’t be me anymore. There wasn’t any point. As Sim’s fists kept raining down on the back of my head, I closed my eyes and shut myself down. There was nowhere else to go. Thump. Nowhere. Thump. Nothing. Thump. Floating. Thump.

  “Bring him over here.”

  The voice was empty and distant, a long way away. I was floating now, not quite seeing myself, but vaguely aware that the thumping had stopped and I was being dragged across the floor again. Lifted to my feet again. Propped up against a wall.

  “Hold him there.”

  The voice was closer, but still just as empty.

  I could see Red now. I could see both of us. I was pale and dead-looking, my head hanging down, nothing there. Red was standing in front of me, blood streaming from his broken nose, his wrong eyes crazed. Twitching like a madman.

  The rain was screaming, the wind was shaking the barn. I could hear the van starting up in the yard, the engine roaring into life. I could feel Red spitting blood into my face. I could feel him pounding me in the belly again.

  Thump.

  “Hold him up.”

  Thump.

  It didn’t hurt.

  Thump.

  I wasn’t there. I was drifting over him, watching as he stooped down and picked up an old piston rod from the ground, watching as he hefted it in his hands, watching as he swung it back and aimed it at my head…

  A stillness came down.

  Sound, silence, light, dark…everything slowed to a moment of nothing. I was there, body and heart. Sim was there, his chicken eyes staring. Red was killing me. The piston rod was coming down. I could hear its whisper in the silence. The rain had stopped. The wind had dropped. I could hear the Transit van rumbling across the yard…

  It didn’t matter anymore.

  I wasn’t going anywhere.

  Red was killing me.

  The piston rod was coming down.

  The van was getting closer, getting louder…the engine roaring in the silence. I could see the headlights strobing through the cracks in the wall…

  It didn’t matter anymore…

  The piston rod was coming down…

  It didn’t matter.

  B
ut I could see the lights…

  Getting closer…

  And I could feel the roar…

  Getting louder…

  And suddenly I knew what it was. The lights, the roar…it wasn’t the Transit van. I knew what it was. I could feel it coming. I could feel it. I was floating again…following the lights, following the roar…following my heart as it carried me out into the cold black night. And now I could see everything. I could see the Transit van parked at the house, dark and still. I could see the lights of the gas tanker hurtling down the lane and roaring into the yard. And I could see the devil’s angel in the windscreen—his killing face, his hell-bent heart, his black eyes burning in the darkness.

  I opened my eyes and smiled…

  The roar thundered, the barn doors exploded, and the gas tanker came crashing through in a blaze of screeching metal and steaming white light.

  Twenty

  The tanker was still moving as Cole flung open the door and threw himself out of the cab. The wheels were screeching to a halt, the brakes were hissing, and I could see Jess in the passenger seat, leaning over and grabbing the steering wheel, swinging the tanker away from Cole as he flew through the air and smashed into Red, slamming him down to the ground. The back of Red’s head cracked dully in the dirt and the piston rod flew from his hand, and then Cole was just pounding him, hammering his fist into his face—bam bam bam—like a man possessed. Sim was still holding me up, too shocked to let go. He was staring wide-eyed at Cole, watching him beat the shit out of Red, and I knew he didn’t want anything to do with it. He wanted to run. I could feel him twitching, getting ready to move, but then he realized that I was his only protection. If he let go of me and just ran, Cole might come after him. But if he took me with him…

  He yanked me away from the wall and started backing away toward the barn doors, holding me in front of him. I was trying to stop him, trying to hold him back, trying to struggle free. And he was cursing me and dragging me and twisting my handcuffed arms, and then—BOOM!—the blast of a shotgun rang out, and we both stopped dead in our tracks. I looked over and saw Jess walking toward us with a sawed-off shotgun in her hands.

  “Let him go,” she told Sim.

  He looked at her for a moment, then took his hands off me.

  “Move away,” she told him, gesturing with the gun. “Over there. Turn around and face the wall.”

  “I wasn’t—” he started to say.

  “Shut up. Move.”

  He walked over to the wall and slowly turned around.

  “Put your hands on your head,” Jess told him.

  She watched him raise his hands and place them on top of his head, then she slipped a penknife from her pocket and came over to me. I turned around and held out my hands. She gently cut the cuffs off my wrists, then steadied me as I turned to face her.

  “Are you OK?” she said, loosening the rope and lifting it carefully over my head.

  I nodded.

  We both looked over at Cole. The sudden blast of the shotgun had broken into his void, and he was just sitting there now—crouched over Red, breathing hard, staring into the battered face beneath him. Red wasn’t moving. His eyes were closed and his face was a mess. I kept my eyes on him until I saw his chest rise and fall, then I turned my attention to Cole. His bandaged hand was red with blood, and his heart was black and empty. I couldn’t feel anything. He was gone, somewhere else, beyond feeling.

  “Cole?” I said softly.

  His head turned, but he didn’t seem to recognize me. His glazed eyes focused on the gun in Jess’s hand.

  “Give it to me,” he told her, his voice a dead-cold whisper. “Give me the gun.”

  Jess looked hesitantly at me. For a fraction of a second I was tempted to tell her to give it to him. Why not? I thought. Just shoot the bastard. Put him out of his misery.

  Why not?

  I gazed back at Jess for a moment, then I looked back over at Cole. He was staring at Red again now, gazing blindly into his bloodied face, his eyes as empty as two black holes.

  Why not? I didn’t know why not, all I knew was what I felt.

  “Come on, Cole,” I said quietly. “Let’s go.”

  His head turned again, and this time he saw me.

  “Ruben?” he said.

  I smiled at him.

  He glanced at Jess, blinked lazily, then looked back at me again. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “How about you?”

  “I’m OK.” He blinked again. “What’s going on?”

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” I told him.

  He didn’t move for a moment, just sat there staring at me. Then all at once something seemed to lift from his face, like an invisible shroud, and he just nodded his head and got to his feet and walked away from Red without so much as a glance.

  I didn’t know what to make of it, and I didn’t care. Cole was alive. He was here. He was crossing the barn toward me. Nothing else mattered.

  “Here,” said Jess, nudging me in the arm and passing me a white silk scarf. “You’re bleeding.”

  I looked at her. She was covering Sim with the sawedoff shotgun. I looked down at my hands. My wrists were red with blood from Sim’s clumsy hacking.

  “Thanks,” I said, taking the scarf from her.

  As I started cleaning the blood from my wrists, Cole came up and stopped in front me. We stared at each other for a second or two, making sure we were both still there, then Cole reached out gently and cradled my face in his bloodstained hand.

  “Christ, Ruben,” he whispered, “look at you…”

  I could feel the tears burning my eyes.

  “You don’t look so great yourself,” I said, trying to smile at Cole’s beaten-up face.

  “It shouldn’t have happened,” he muttered sadly. “Not to you. It shouldn’t have happened…”

  I couldn’t say anything. I just looked at him—my brother.

  He was my brother.

  I think we could have stayed there forever, just being together without any words, but when the silence was suddenly broken by the sound of the Transit van turning around in the yard, we both came back to our senses and rejoined the rest of the world.

  “It’s Vince,” I said quickly, looking out through the hole in the barn wall where the tanker had crashed through the doors. “I forgot about him. He’s in the van.” The Transit was racing out of the yard now, heading toward the lane. I turned to Cole, expecting him to do something, but he didn’t seem to care. He just watched the van as it screamed away up the lane, crunching wildly through the gears, then he looked down at me and smiled.

  “You ready to go?” he said.

  “What about Vince?”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s getting away…”

  “Let him go.” Cole shrugged. “He’s nothing.” He turned to Jess. “You OK?”

  She smiled at him. He smiled back at her, then glanced over her shoulder at Sim. He was still standing against the wall with his hands on his head, but he’d turned his neck slightly to see what was going on. When he saw Cole looking at him, he quickly turned back to the wall.

  Cole said to Jess, “Get the tanker started.”

  She nodded at him, then came over to me, took me by the arm, and started leading me over to the tanker. I glanced over my shoulder. Cole was walking up behind Sim. I could hear Sim talking to him, his voice in a panic, but Cole wasn’t listening. He stepped up and flat-handed Sim hard in the back of his head, slamming his face into the wall. Timber cracked and Sim went down without a sound, dropping to the floor like a bag of cement. Cole looked down at him for a second, then went over to Red.

  Red hadn’t moved. He was still splayed out on the ground, his body limp, his mouth hanging open, his swollen eyes shut. It didn’t look as if he’d be moving for a long time. I was half-expecting Cole to give him a final whack in the head or something, but he didn’t. He just looked at him for a moment, his face blank, then he turned around and s
tarted following Jess and me across the barn to the gas tanker.

  Jess had let go of my arm now. We’d reached the tanker and she was clambering up to the cab to open the door on the driver’s side. Steam was rising from the heat of the engine, and the air was thick with gas fumes. I could smell the fetid stench of the mud again, too—only now it seemed even worse. Like the stink of a dead animal. I looked up at the tanker. It was a wreck: old, rusty, scratched and dented, its greasy white paintwork spattered with mud.

  Jess opened the door and laid the shotgun on the seat, then she turned around and called down to me.

  “Wait there, Ruben,” she said. “I’m just going to—”

  She stopped abruptly, her eyes suddenly drawn to something behind me. I turned around to see a figure emerging from around the other side of the cab, pointing a rifle at Jess. It took me a moment to realize it was Abbie. Her face had aged, the life drained out of it. Her skin was empty and gray, her eyes unfocused, her movements stiff and cold.

  “Get down,” she told Jess. “Leave the gun in the cab.” Her voice was flat and dull, almost trancelike. “Down,” she repeated. “Now.”

  Jess moved slowly, backing down the steps of the cab, keeping her eyes fixed steadily on Abbie.

  “It’s all right,” Jess said calmly, showing her hands, “I’m not going to do anything.” She flicked a quick glance at the rifle. Abbie’s finger was resting on the trigger. Jess smiled at her. “Why don’t you put that down? We’ve got a tanker full of gas here—”

  “Shut up,” Abbie said, gripping the rifle tighter. She blinked a couple of times, looking around the barn, then her eyes suddenly fixed on Cole. As he walked up quietly and stopped beside us, Abbie leveled the rifle at him.

  “Stay there,” she said.

  Cole just looked at her.

  “Don’t move,” she told him.

  He stared at her. “What do you want?”

  “It wasn’t Vince’s fault…” she muttered. “He didn’t mean anything…it was a mistake—”

  “No, it wasn’t,” Cole said. “You know that.”

  She shook her head. “He didn’t mean any harm.”