In The End Box Set | Books 1-3

by Stevens, GJ

  All the time, Sherlock had been looking my way, glaring back when our eyes met.

  A gust of wind washed across my face, the effluent stench drawing away my concern that any moment Sherlock might push me into the water. With heads angled skyward and peering across the view, I could tell the others smelt it too.

  Seeing the sign on the left bank, I caught Gibson nodding in its direction as the others turned their heads to read the words and put themselves at ease. Each soon looked to the plumes of smoke rising above the trees which hid all but the tallest utilitarian buildings of the sewerage treatment plant nestled on an island bisecting the river and the canal.

  The ring of green did nothing to hide the stench pushed high by the fires.

  As we passed, I covered my mouth, trying to hold back the pervasive odour, and as it eventually faded, my attention went to a tall bridge across our path. Despite the distance, I saw the roofs of stationary cars and vans end to end across its length, forming the same scene we’d seen so many times before, but on a much bigger scale. Eventually I turned away, grateful the eight blocked lanes of motorway weren’t in our way.

  With the low drone of the boat’s engine the only sound, no voices cutting over, I couldn’t help but question if the others were thinking about the moment the cars ground to a halt. Like me, were they asking themselves what could have made the people leave their cars and walk away in the freezing cold? Or perhaps run for their lives?

  Movement in my peripheral vision caught my eye, and I turned to the left, peering across the width of the river to settle on an animal at the far bank. Squinting for detail, I tried to figure if it was a dog or cat with its head down over a heap at its front. With nothing to give perspective to the size, it was as Thompson spoke the figure rose, standing tall to glare at us from across the water.

  “Watch for contacts on the bridge.”

  I turned away as it walked into the water, then as it tripped over, falling headfirst when the water reached its knees.

  Could a life on the water solve our predicament?

  Thompson repeated his words and I followed his instructions, looking up toward the great concrete bridge looming in front of us.

  I left the shotgun cradled in my arms as Thompson and the others pointed their weapons upward. The percussive hum of the engine magnified as we passed the concrete edge, giving a brief respite from the danger of the unwanted falling on top of us.

  With the bridge soon at our backs as we continued downstream, a splash from behind called us to turn and scour the deck for who’d fallen overboard. Instead of finding someone missing, we turned up to the small crowd at the edge of the bridge who noiselessly called for our blood and proved Thompson had been right with his caution.

  With the bridge shrinking from my view, I turned to a boatyard on the other side of the river standing empty as we passed. I imagined the river filled with tourists and pleasure seekers on a sunny day; the water teeming with traffic. In my daydream, families clustered on the banks with food laid out across their blankets.

  Our course changed and the sweep of our journey heading to the left of the narrow channel drew my thoughts away. Taking the few steps, I climbed up to the small wheelhouse where Cassie didn’t look from the water ahead.

  About to question the turn, I caught sight of the white of an upturned hull in the centre of the canal, silencing my question.

  With her right hand dropping the throttle, we slowed as Cassie leaned forward, concentrating ahead as if trying to look below the surface of the water. With a deft touch to the controls, adjusting the turn of the wheel and the throttle, she seemed as if she’d piloted a boat for much of her life.

  Perhaps she had. I had, after all, only known her for such a brief time.

  “Shit,” she said, sending my eyes wide, the boat lurching to the left so violently as I rushed to grab at anything solid. A great boom reverberated from the hull as white water splashed high and we lurched to the side.

  68

  JESSICA

  Searching the small cabin with the door swinging closed at my back, I heard Alex’s chattering teeth as I pulled up the tops of the bench seats, but found nothing warm to wrap her in, just space where the provisions should have been.

  Shadow had followed us and sniffed around as I searched the cupboards on one side by the entrance and the other, a simple toilet, but they were empty too. Cursing the owners of the craft, I turned back to Alex with her arms wrapped around herself and took a chance.

  Despite fearing how she would react, I took a long step toward her. When she didn’t reel back in horror, I wrapped my arms around her and gripped her hard against her shakes. And there we held, the shivers slowing and we were at peace, despite the raised voices the other side of the door. Nothing could end that time where we were the only two people alive.

  “The camera,” Alex said, pulling away.

  Still shaking, she pulled the rucksack from her shoulders and laid it to the seat, unclipping the clasps and pulling it open. She turned my way, smiling when inside she saw no water had got it and the camera sat safe and well, still nestled in the grey foam.

  Clipping the case closed, she launched back into my arms, but the lurch of the boat to the side threw me backwards with Alex landing on top of me.

  69

  LOGAN

  As I slammed into Cassie’s side, the motion sent the shotgun clattering to the deck, the boat groaning as the hull scraped over what lay just under the water. Trying to steady myself and grabbing for any handle, I paused beside Cassie with her warmth radiating through her clothes.

  Reaching out with her right hand as the other held on to the boat, she pushed at my chest and I turned, gripping at the other side of the wheelhouse to pull away, despite the steep angle.

  As quick as the change of direction came, we lurched the other way, violently coming upright with the motion sending us in the opposite direction. Cassie recovered before stumbling into my side and hit the throttle to hush the engine when the sound of a sudden splash in the water came from behind.

  Turning to the sound, Cassie’s eyes widened with concern over who had fallen. When I didn’t see Alex or Jess, I tried to remember if they’d been on the deck moments before, just as Shadow bounded up from below where we stood, followed by the two women.

  Looking back to the deck, I saw only two soldiers steadying themselves against the handrails.

  “Man overboard,” they called in a well-drilled unison. Gibson had vanished.

  “What happened?” Alex shouted as she rushed to the soldier’s side.

  “We hit a sunken boat,” I said, as I leapt down the steps to scour the water, joined by Thompson, Sherlock and Alex.

  My search caught on the white of the upturned hull disappearing from view in the murky water as we drifted away.

  “There,” I called, pointing to a mop of long blonde hair near the edge of the canal, despite knowing the figure couldn’t have been Gibson with his close crop. A sudden fresh fear gripped tight in my stomach when I realised there were creatures under the water, even though we’d travelled far from where we’d taken the boat.

  “Eight o’clock,” came the call, and heads turned just enough to see the dark hair of Gibson. The engine came to life and we jerked to a stop, watching as the pale figure burst from the water, but not splashing about in panic.

  Despite the memory of the freezing water rushing back, I expected the soldiers to jump to his rescue. Neither did; instead, they stood to the edge and leaned over. Did they think he’d been bitten whilst under the water and turned already? Why else would they leave this man to fend for himself?

  Stepping to the edge, questioning whether I should jump in instead, I looked to the water and saw movement a short distance the way we’d come.

  I looked back to Gibson, watching with alarm as he dived under the surface again. Whatever he was doing it seemed he still had control, but not for long if the creatures spotted him.

  With movement behind him rippling
the water, short waves battered the sides of the hull as we sought any glimpse of other heads just below the surface.

  “Gibson,” I called, more voices adding to the volume. Someone had to do something or we’d lose him, but as if not afflicted by the icy temperature, he was still under the water, searching for something on the canal bed.

  The rifle. He’d been carrying one of the two remaining rifles and must have dropped it as he fell.

  “Gibson,” the voices called again.

  He’d been under so long, giving us no chance to tell him his life wasn’t worth the length of metal.

  Just then, Gibson broke through the surface to a chorus of voices calling his name, but he didn’t seem to hear; instead, without a glance to the boat of people waving or the turbulent water whipped up by the dead walking below the surface, he dived back under.

  A shot rang out loud from my side and I turned to see Thompson pointing his pistol toward the water, a wisp of smoke curling up from the end of the muzzle. Then another, this time to my right, Sherlock firing above Gibson’s position at shapes moving in the water. Blinking as I turned back, I hoped they were certain they knew where he would rise again.

  Just as another shot rang out, the soaked black metal of the rifle raised out of the water with fingers curled around its middle. Gibson’s head rose soon after with his mouth wide, not waiting for the water to drain down his face as he pulled a quick breath. Glancing left and right before getting his bearings, he beamed as if he’d won a prize, but the elation fell away when he heard our muddle of voices screaming his name.

  Rather than looking around, he lunged forward, paddling with the rifle in one hand as the other cut through the water. The engine tone rose, and we lurched back before coming to a stop close enough to lean down with Thompson by my side and reaching for a wrist each.

  As I did, Sherlock knocked my hand out of the way and placed his grip on the cuff of Gibson’s black jacket, heaving him back to the deck.

  Glaring in my direction, Sherlock spoke, but not to me.

  “You should have left the rifle, you stupid twat,” he said, turning to the shivering soldier.

  With water coursing down his face, Gibson glanced behind him to the murky brown, bristling with movement.

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah,” I said, and slapped him on the shoulder, ignoring Sherlock’s returning glare. Thompson shook his head and took the rifle from Gibson’s grip.

  The engine note went high again and we moved off at an unhurried pace, much slower than we had before the crash. I watched as the water rippled under the surface.

  Leaving Gibson to undress and wring out his clothes, changing into whatever spares they had left, despite what they’d told me when I asked. I headed back up the steps, picking up the shotgun and resting it in the cradle of my arm.

  Peering out across the water, Cassie kept her concentration fixed, scanning the width of the canal as we crept forward.

  “Where d’you learn to drive a boat?” I asked once my nerves had settled. “Or do you pilot a boat? I’m never sure which it is.” My voice sounded timid as if we were on a first date, or chatting to a stranger and scrambling to make small talk.

  I didn’t look around to catch Cassie’s reaction but when I couldn’t see her move in my peripheral vision, I felt a great weight over me.

  The weight fell as she spoke, her words flat but at least she was engaging. “I don’t think it matters.”

  When she spoke again, I had to push down the rising smile. “My dad taught me. We grew up with rivers and the sea all around us. He would take me out on a boat twice a year.”

  “You had a boat?” I replied, still reeling that we were having a conversation.

  She shrugged. “We’d just hire one for the day.” Glancing my way, I saw a hint of a smile before turning back to the water. In the brief moment, I caught a twinkle in her eye as if she was grateful for reliving a cherished childhood memory, but her smile soon dropped and she leaned forward again.

  I turned ahead but couldn’t see anything that could have pulled her from the memory.

  Then I remembered her parents were probably dead; lost in the melee of roadblocks in the early days.

  “Ellie hated the water.” Cassie’s voice held back my thoughts. “But she would still come along. She didn’t have to, but she enjoyed the time with us. She’d take travel sickness tablets or be hanging over the edge for the entire day.” Cassie stopped as if about to add something else, but after a few moments she kept it to herself.

  Moving her hand to the throttle, she cut the power. Ahead I saw the low bridge blocking our path and we drifted, slowing to the speed of the current.

  “How do we get…?” I said, but Cassie cut me off.

  “It’s a swing bridge,” she said, as if listening to my thought before I’d given it voice. “Someone will have to get out to operate it.”

  I stared at the low metal bridge, tracing the painted white railings running along the top. Cassie turned to the deck below.

  “Someone needs to get off and swing the bridge out of the way.”

  I turned, peering around the reluctant faces, catching only Alex nodding in reply.

  “Alex and I will do it,” I said.

  Thompson paused for a moment before hurrying to push the last parts of the rifle back together.

  “We’ll cover,” he said, and Sherlock glared up as Gibson nodded, shivering but still with a smile, slipping his arms back into a dry long-sleeved fleece.

  “Hang on,” Cassie said, turning away from looking to the bridge as we drew slowly closer. “It opens outwards. We might be able to push it out of the way without getting off the boat.”

  I turned, looking to the handrails coming into focus and the wooden deck only wide enough for two people to walk side by side. To the left the underside of the bridge was much larger than the right and I guessed it was the side where it hinged to the bank, the mechanism hidden by a stone surround.

  Cassie lifted the throttle levers and we edged in close. Without being told, I braced myself as we slowed. Turning back, Thompson’s pistol trained out across the horizon and the two rifles in the other soldier’s grips covered the other two-thirds of the view, ready for whatever might lie in ambush.

  I thought about jumping to the deck and glancing the shotgun around the view when Cassie spoke.

  “Get forward and push. I don’t want to risk the hull.” Her words were aimed at Alex, Jess and me. We climbed around the thin ledge, holding the metal rail as we shuffled to the front deck. Not able to take my gaze from the murky water, I stared, searching out what waited should we fall in.

  Despite the boat travelling at barely a crawl, the bridge came at us too quickly. Cassie let the throttle out in reverse and we slowed, bringing our outstretched hands to the bridge’s white handrail and we curled our grips to the cold metal. It was clear the hull of the boat could fit under the bridge, but anything above that level had no chance unless we drained the canal.

  After checking we each had a hold, I nodded back to Cassie and the engine came to life. Taking a step back, surprised by the movement, I regained my stance and pushed. For a moment, its weight forced us back and it felt as if the bridge was stuck in place.

  Just as I thought I would fall backwards, the bridge moved and I had to let it go when it swung out of reach, leaving only Alex to the far left to keep its momentum until it slammed into its stone home at the side of the bank.

  It was only then I deciphered the hushed words between the soldiers as we’d pushed the metal. Had they seen something?

  A sudden fear rushed through me when the heavy metal structure bounced against the stone, the bridge heading back our way, swinging into our path to send us into the murky water where more of those things could be waiting below the surface. Ready to rush back around the hull, the bridge halted, and we passed through, leaving the rise of adrenaline to drain away.

  Back under the cover of the wheelhouse, I tried not to think of what wou
ld have happened if it had knocked us off our feet. Instead, I looked to the horizon.

  The slow, continual motion forward helped to settle my fear as we travelled along the straight line of the man-made channel. The view from the wheelhouse filled me with confidence, with fields either side. A cluster of smoke columns rose to the sky, turning my thoughts to what could be a town, or perhaps a city ahead.

  I had hoped as we headed further out of Exeter the towns might not have been a repeat of what we’d already witnessed and would offer safe transport out of the nightmare, or at least to where the children were. The rising smoke helped dispel the dream.

  There was still hope, I reminded myself. Perhaps all was not lost. Perhaps the Royal Navy had a ship just off the coast, ready to pick us up and continue the soldier’s mission. The thoughts dissolved when the waterway narrowed in front of us.

  The muddy banks of the canal turned to concrete with a brick building, possibly a hotel or a pub, holding state at a set of lock gates we had no choice but to get out and operate.

  70

  The words I dreaded came from Cassie, pushing away any thought she could have another trick up her sleeve. “I can’t push this one open.” Her voice remained steady and she didn’t look my way.

  Turning to footsteps behind, I watched Thompson beside me, peering at the lock. After looking for just a moment, he jumped to the deck, raising his finger to Gibson.

  “Stay on board and I’ll over-watch canal-side.” Gibson nodded through his shakes, moving to the back of the boat as Thompson pointed to Sherlock whilst reaching out for his rifle. “You and...” he said, pointing towards me as if searching for my name as he took the gun, “and you operate the lock. We’d help, but we need to keep watch.”

  I replied with a nod, then glanced to Sherlock, who held his expression steeled, a single brow raised.