by Moody, David
He double-checked and triple-checked, doubting himself.
Was he looking in the wrong place?
It took a couple of seconds for the reality of what had happened to sink in. Roy. That fucker’s stolen the car.
He began to panic, thinking first about the car itself, then all the precious belongings he’d left inside it, then the sucker-punch. I’m lost without the car. I’ll never get to Sam.
There was some engine noise all the time, individual car sounds hard to discern in the ever-changing directionless wash. One car raced past from behind him, several more weaved through the motorway chaos at different speeds. But wait... he thought he could hear the noise of his car’s engine above it all. He was tuned into it like a dog owner who recognises their animal’s bark and he looked around desperately. Then he saw it. Roy was by the fuel station near the exit, driving through the gap between an empty truck and a burned out wreck, racing along the long loop of the road back around to re-join the main carriageway.
No choice. Run!
Steven scrambled back through the hedgerow again, thorns slashing at his sunburned skin, knowing it would be quicker to follow the straight-line of the motorway. He tried to sprint but it was too much, the sunlight roasting him and the parched air too dry to breathe in. He slowed but kept running, managing little more than a jog but still quicker than walking pace. He’d barely made it more than a few metres when he saw his car up ahead. Roy swerved it out onto the road and all Steven could do was watch as it raced away into the distance, disappearing into the heat-haze.
That’s not just my car. That’s all that’s left of my entire bloody life.
16
He kept going because he didn’t know what else to do. The run slowed to a walk after several minutes because there was no point expending anymore energy than he had to, no chance at all of catching up. Even taking account of the terrified confusion of the world today, Roy would be miles away by now. Steven’s mood darkened still further when he thought about the route he’d foolishly explained to the bastard before he’d stolen the car. Not far from here – by car, that was, not by foot – was the junction where the M6, M6 Toll and M42 branched off from each other. Which road would Roy take? He could theoretically choose any one of the three, so which did Steven take? He thought about it for longer than he needed to before realising it didn’t matter. Fuck it. I’ll probably never get to the junction anyway.
He walked along the hard shoulder, keeping out of the way of other vehicles, feeling desperately prone. His bare arms and legs were burning, and he had no way of protecting them. When it became too much to stand, he ferreted around in the open boot of a car which had wedged itself into the back of another, and emerged with a gaudy beach towel which he draped around his shoulders and let drag behind him.
A little further and he was forced to clamber over the wreckage of a huge crash. It wasn’t the first he’d seen, but it was a particularly bad one and it stretched across almost the entire road, reducing three lanes to one. A narrow channel had been left through the carnage, but a relatively steady flow of vehicles were driving through the gap and he didn’t fancy his chances on foot. Instead he climbed up onto the wreckage, wincing and cursing whenever his bare skin made contact with red hot metal.
Just beyond the crash, a vehicle had clearly lost control, ploughed through the barrier at the side of the road, and plunged down the embankment. He stood at the hole in the metal railings and looked down at the car below which looked, to all intents and purposes, as if it had simply been parked in the middle of a farmer’s dusty brown field. He could see the curved grooves its wheels had made in the un-harvested, sun-bleached crops, perfectly symmetrical lines cut into the dried-out vegetation. And then he looked further into the distance, and Steven saw that the motorway he’d been following looped around to the left. If he climbed down the embankment and walked in a straight line, he realised, he’d meet up with the motorway again and save himself a mile or so’s walk. He did it before he could talk himself out of it, tumbling down the bank, finding himself running in the tracks left by the crashed car, struggling to stay upright.
And for the first few minutes, he wondered if the extra effort would be worth it. Although further, at least the motorway had been relatively smooth and even. Here the ground was anything but: pot-holed and furrowed, with the sun-baked mud as hard and unforgiving as concrete. But Steven trudged on, because he didn’t have any alternative. Through a road-wide stream which had dried to a trickle, over a rickety wooden stile, along a stretch of scorched track, under the blanched branches of a parched tree... he made himself keep going. At least there’s some variety down here, he thought.
Although crossing the fields seemed to take an eternity, as he climbed up the embankment on the other side he realised it had been a wise move. He’d taken a huge chunk out of the distance he’d needed to cover. And as he hauled himself back up to road level, legs aching, grabbing handfuls of yellowed weeds at a time to pull himself up higher, he saw something which made his heart sink. Another crash, similar to the last. A virtual wall of wreckage, a twisted metal carpet of carnage. There was only one way through, a narrow gap through the chaos, and on his side of that strangled opening, an enormous bottleneck.
Steven wasn’t the only person on foot now. He could see several more people taking their chances on the open road rather than sit and bake in their cars. They all looked as odd as him too. Oversized hats and draped sheets were the order of the day. He laughed to himself as he finally stood level on the hard shoulder again. Bedclothes burkas.
He felt like he was pre-programmed to keep moving forward now, no matter what the cost. The thought of standing still was unbearable. Apart from the extreme physical discomfort of standing exposed in the never-ending sunlight (it seemed to hurt far less when he was walking), he knew that to waste time reduced his already slim chances of reaching Sam still further. He tried not to think about the distance left to cover but each footstep forward, although infinitesimal in the overall scheme of things, was a psychological boost.
The engine noise increased as he neared the mass of cars crowding to get through the gap, still more racing up behind him and braking hard, and it was only then that he realised how quiet everywhere else had become. Deathly quiet, in fact. Crossing that field just now he’d barely heard a sound. No running water. No wind in the trees. No birds... nothing.
Steven was distracted, and it took him a couple of seconds to fully register what he was seeing now.
His car.
He stopped and checked himself, lowered his shades, looked around. It couldn’t be, could it? Maybe it was a similar one? Same colour, make and model? What were the chances? But wait, Roy hadn’t had any choice but to keep driving in this direction, it had to be him. He squinted to make out the number plate but the glare was too bright. He kept moving, edging closer.
Now he was sure. It fucking well was his car. His Audi, nudging forward on one side of the monstrous, still swelling bottleneck, trying to cut up another driver and save a few seconds. And that cunt Roy was still behind the wheel. His wheel.
At once he felt renewed hope and utter terror. He hated physical confrontation, did all he could to avoid it, and now he knew he had no option but to fight for his car and for the chance of getting to Criccieth. What was the alternative? To capitulate and never see his wife again? He jogged forward, glad of his beach-towel disguise, one more dishevelled, ridiculous-looking figure amongst many. What did he do? Just go for the door? Try and drag Roy out? His heart was racing and his mouth felt impossibly dry as he approached.
Grow some bollocks, he ordered himself.
He ran at his car from the left side, towel flapping around him like a superhero’s cape. Roy looked focused, concentrating on the road ahead, avoiding all eye contact and not prepared to give even an inch to any of the other drivers around him. But at the last possible moment – the worst possible moment – he looked up. Steven saw the panic on his sunburnt face, saw him desperately messing
with the car’s controls. He heard the central locking click shut, and though Steven clawed at the passenger door glass to keep it open, he was too late to stop the window from closing. Not good. Roy glanced over and grinned at him, holding onto the steering wheel with both hands now, like the driver on the start line of a race waiting for the green light.
He’s not going anywhere. No one’s going anywhere.
Steven walked around to the front of his car and positioned himself square in Roy’s view. ‘I’m going to get you, fucker,’ he shouted at him.
‘Fuck you,’ Roy mouthed, grinning again and raising his middle finger defiantly.
Steven moved fast when Roy shunted the car forward aggressively. He looked around for inspiration. That car was everything to him now. He’d always loved it, always been proud of it, but now it was more than just a nice-looking means of transportation, it was his lifeline. And even more than that, it was the last remaining physical reminder of his connection with Sam. He remembered them buying the car together, all the trips they’d taken in it, good and bad. He remembered driving her to hospital and sitting in the car making phone calls on the day they’d lost Jack. He visualised the contents of the boot, all those precious things he’d taken from home, all those memories... was he really going to allow someone as selfish and useless as Roy take it all from him now? This obnoxious, insignificant, so-called friend of a friend?
Like hell.
There was a Transit van nestled up against the central reservation, abandoned mid-wheel change. Steven ran over and picked up a wrench which had been left under the still jacked-up vehicle’s chassis. He grabbed its handle which was unexpectedly cool, protected from the sun by the shadows under the van. He then picked his way back through the constantly moving maze of vehicles, climbing over bonnets and squeezing through narrow gaps to get to his own car, approaching it from the driver’s side this time. He could see Roy from here, trying to act like he was unfazed and unflustered, but constantly looking from side to side. Steven did what he could to keep out of view, ducking down and holding back, oblivious to the countless pairs of eyes watching him from every direction, thinking him insane. There was a bubble of space around the driver’s door of his Audi. At the last possible moment Steven ripped off his towel to give himself more freedom, then launched himself at his car.
He smashed the wrench into the window. It took both him and Roy by surprise. Roy was shocked by the unexpected movement and noise, Steven by the fact the wrench bounced off the glass and didn’t smash through. He had more luck with the second strike which cracked the glass, and then with the third which completely shattered the window and showered Roy with diamond-like shards. It only occurred to Steven after he’d thrown the wrench away that he could have done with the weapon-like tool, but it was too late. Holding Roy back with one hand, he scrambled around for the inside door handle with the other. Roy was still struggling and offered little response. Steven had his hand on the side of his face, pushing his neck, and though his hands flailed, he couldn’t stop the door from being opened. ‘Should have had your safety belt on, you useless fucker,’ Steven yelled as he dragged him out of the driver’s seat and onto the road. On his back like a turtle, already baking in the heat, Roy desperately grabbed at him, managing to catch his right foot. Steven tripped but held onto the open car door and kept his balance. He shook his foot free and then, with an unexpected positional advantage, he kicked Roy in the face.
He’d done it. Back in his car. Back in control.
Steven locked the doors as Roy picked himself back up again. He was sobbing. Right eye swollen shut. Blood trickling from his nose. ‘I’m sorry, Steve... I panicked... let me back in. I won’t do it again...’
‘Too late. Fuck off.’
Roy yanked the door handle, trying again and again to open it. ‘Please, Steve...’ he moaned.
Steven just wanted out but he was as trapped as Roy had been, no quick way through the bottleneck. He cursed himself. Fucking idiot. He was actually feeling sorry for Roy now. He watched the useless, overweight lump of a man crying, shoulders shaking, and for a second he actually considered letting him back in. He hoped someone else would take pity on him and offer him a lift, but he knew no one would. He wished he hadn’t. He should have been more mercenary, more selfish, but it wasn’t in his nature. Roy came at the door again and Steven pushed him away. He’d almost lost everything because he’d been so bloody soft and so trusting. You need to toughen up if you want to see your wife again, he told himself. But he was still stuck in this bloody traffic queue, no way forward and no way back.
Wait.
There was an alternative.
Off-road.
His car wasn’t designed for it, but what the hell... could conditions elsewhere be any worse than this? The car in front edged forward a few centimetres and Steven checked his mirrors, ignoring Roy who continued to plead with him for help, on his knees now. When the car ahead moved again, just marginally further, Steven saw his chance and took it. He began shunting backwards and forwards again and again, a three-point turn which took many, many more attempts, and then he managed to swing the front of his car out of the traffic queue and turn a tight arc in the road. He was about to put his foot down when he heard Roy cry out once more, his voice hoarse with effort. ‘Steve... wait.’
But he didn’t. He reached into the back for Roy’s rucksack, then bundled it out of the broken window before accelerating and driving away, heading in the opposite direction to the rest of the crawling motorway traffic, swerving around oncoming vehicles. And then, when he reached the embankment he’d climbed up a short while earlier, he drove down. The last thing he saw before he left the road was Roy, rucksack in hand, still yelling, still running after him.
17
This was beginning to feel almost normal. Almost. Having managed to drive across a furrowed field and down a dusty farm track, Steven had joined a road which was narrow and twisting but which, more importantly, was also pretty much empty. He found his position on the map and plotted a course. Now he was driving at something resembling a decent speed, and he was even managing to listen to the bloody radio! Okay, so it was hardly helping and he switched it off again before long, but at least it was something. Unfortunately the only people left broadcasting were those who seemed to think it was their public duty to do so, shutting themselves away in their heat-trap studios out of some misguided sense of public service or moral duty. He’d only found one BBC channel still operating, and that made for painful listening. The sole presenter talked in fits and bursts, at once positive and full of energy, then low and morose. There was no news as such now, just fragments of information snatched from elsewhere, relayed by a loyal producer or technician who could occasionally be heard mumbling in the background. The radio voice talked about tens of thousands – hundreds of thousands – of people dying in other countries, about the fact that much of Australia was on fire, about the desolation of Africa and the chaos in those countries where it used to be permanently cold, failing to cope with a mass influx of refugees trying to escape the inescapable heat. It was fucking terrifying, Steven thought. And the thing which was most frightening of all was the fact there wasn’t a damn thing anyone could do about it.
The other stations still broadcasting were no better. After a few minutes spent listening to the incensed ramblings of a street corner preacher with a broad Birmingham accent who couldn’t believe he’d found himself in front of a microphone, Steven had had enough. When he started ranting about the purification of the energy pulses, cleansing the world of sin, The Rapture, Steven switched the radio off.
The traffic had been heavy again in fits and starts, but had thinned out noticeably now he’d changed direction. In effect he was driving beneath Birmingham now, skirting the city at a relatively safe distance, staying south but all the time heading west. He didn’t know whether it was the directional change that had made the difference, or if there were simply fewer vehicles on the road. Had yesterday been peak pani
c day? Had everyone else either reached their destinations by now or given up or failed? Whatever the reason, he continued to be a witness to a never-ending parade of bizarre, sometimes awful sights. He thought he was becoming immune to the grotesque, the unsettling, the downright terrifying. They were just momentary distractions, gone quickly, forgotten as soon as they’d been seen.
He drove past a police station which looked to be under siege, like something out of that old seventies movie Assault on Precinct 13, relocated to sun-drenched middle-England. The only vehicles on the forecourt were burned out wrecks, just enough paint still visible between the scorch marks to identify them as patrol cars.
A vast, warehouse-like supermarket had been heavily looted, and its looters were still coming and going as Steven drove past. It was the most casual riot he’d ever seen, people just wandering in and taking what they wanted with a complete lack of regard, guilt or remorse. And the things they were taking... he watched two men carrying an immense flat-screen TV between them, barely managing the weight. Others grabbed whatever food or drink was left from the shelves. And it occurred to him that these people weren’t running or hiding anymore, not stealing for the sake of it, they were preparing. They were getting ready for what was inevitably coming... more energy pulses of increasing ferocity, the ever increasing temperature, drought, food shortages, the end of everything... It was a sobering thought. He pictured the guys with the huge TV watching films or playing Xbox or Playstation for as long as possible, a final film festival or a last drink-fuelled gaming session, perhaps? It didn’t seem too bad an option, all things considered: movies and games to distract them, booze to steady the nerves and numb the fear for the duration of the time which remained.
How long would it take him to get to Criccieth? At this pace he reckoned he’d be there well before nightfall, but would he make it before the next energy pulse struck? He worked his way back, trying to identify a pattern: