by J. D. Weston
The spin stopped when both the front and rear right-hand wheels dug into the soft earth, and the car flipped over. It rolled once, twice, then after the third roll, it landed with a hard crash on its roof. The wheels turned uselessly in the air.
There was a silence in the driveway. Just smoke and steam rolled across the barren wasteland.
Harvey hung upside down and dazed in his seat belt. Blood dripped from a long wound across his forehead.
The creaking of another car door nearby brought Harvey's focus back from the spinning and rolling and crashing. He reached for his knife, which was permanently in the case fixed to his belt, and cut the fabric of the seat belt. He crashed down onto the inside of the car's roof.
Feet were approaching, upside down, they staggered through the long grass towards him.
A gunshot rang out, then another. It was loud in the silence.
More shots, louder, closer.
Harvey pulled his legs back and kicked out hard at the passenger window. It took two kicks to shatter the glass into tiny fragments that fell around his legs. He shuffled awkwardly towards the window legs first until they found ground. More gunshots nearby. One shot hit the dashboard and ricocheted through the windscreen, shattering more glass onto him. He scrambled faster and rolled free of the car into the long grass. There was a figure on the driveway to his left two hundred yards away. The upturned BMW stood between Harvey and Murray, who was now returning fire at the other person.
Harvey checked around, one end of the barn was fully ablaze, the furthest end. Harvey staggered towards it, the girls would perish in the smoke before the fire reached them. Sirens sounded far off in the distance. Black smoke belched across the land obscuring Harvey's view of Murray and the other figure. Harvey turned and ran as best he could towards the barn.
He broke the single door in with the heel of his foot; it swung back and crashed into the wall behind. He aimed his Sig and stepped inside. Smoke stung his eyes and tore at his throat, he lifted his shirt up to cover his face. He needed to act fast. He kicked the door to stable six in and swept the room with his weapon. It was empty. In the main room of the barn, the far wall began to crumble, as its old dry timber was eaten by hungry flames.
He kicked in the door to stable five, it was empty, then continued along, kick, sweep, check, move along. Stables three and four had a single bed in the centre of each room and a rancid bucket that had been used for a toilet. Stable two had nothing, he approached stable one knowing it would be empty. The heat from the burning wall next to stable one was excruciatingly hot. He held his arm up to protect his face, and kicked the door in, nothing.
The kitchen and control room was at the far end of the barn beside stable six, he ran to the door and slipped inside. Everything was gone, the screens, the computers, everything had been removed. He turned to walk out, but as he spun around, a burning wooden beam that had run the length of the barn up in the eaves came crashing down and smashed into the partition wall of the kitchen, blocking his exit. He tried to pull debris from the wall out of the way to escape, but the beam had trapped the gypsum boards beneath its immense weight. Smoke began to fill the tiny space inside the ruined kitchen.
Harvey moved back and looked around him. The kitchen was against the rear of the barn where there were no windows. The exterior wall was far too thick to smash through. He coughed with the smoke, but tore the cupboards from the wall and revealed the gypsum partitioning, then began to kick his way through. He found a gap between the wooden studding that formed the frame of the partition and smashed through it urgently.
He'd managed to break through one side when more of the burning wood fell into the barn outside the kitchen. Harvey felt the heat suddenly increase, the fire was even closer now, he had only a few minutes before the ceiling gave way.
The smoke had also increased. He fell to his knees and sought the layer of cool, clean air on the cold concrete, but there was none. He rolled and sat on the dirty floor, blood from his head wound ran into his eye, and he wiped it with his arm, leaving a red streak across his face.
In front of him, he'd broken through one side of the thick partition wall. He weakly raised his leg and began to kick, but he hadn't the strength. The urge to roll onto his side, curl up and close his eyes was overwhelming.
More timbers crashed onto the floor outside, and a huge dust cloud joined the smoke inside the small space. The ceiling began to buckle with the heat.
Harvey gritted his teeth and searched deep inside himself. One kick at a time, he brought his leg back, growled with fear, fury, anything he could, and smashed his heel into the gypsum in front of him. Again and again. On his fifth kick, he felt the gypsum give way, then his sixth broke through.
The heat from the smashed kitchen doorway was intense.
His eyes stung from the smoke and blood.
He'd made a hole as large as his foot, but moved his face to it and breathed, it was still smoky but felt cooler. He pulled his arm back and punched in the plaster around the hole, working his way around, making the hole larger with each punch.
Then he plunged his head and body through the hole and dragged his legs through just as the ceiling came down inside the kitchen. He lay on the floor, but he wasn't clear of danger. Devastation was happening all around him, and the smoke was growing thicker.
He looked up from the floor, he was in stable six. He'd closed the door behind him when he'd kicked it in earlier, and was now trapped in a larger room with high walls and no ceiling. The exposed roof trusses above were obscured by thick black smoke and the shimmer of the heat. Flames licked out at the fresh wood above him from inside the main barn.
Harvey touched the door handle tentatively, it was red hot. There was no way he was getting through the door. As he turned to find more options, the barn’s burning wall fell to the ground with an almighty crash, followed by a searing roar of flames that licked at every empty space in the barn. Harvey heard the suck of air into the fire's lungs, and the heat intensified even more.
The blood continued to run across his brow, he wiped it across his forehead; it seemed to be getting worse. He heard the crack of timber as the weight of the fallen side wall began to pull on the three remaining walls. A small crack appeared between the timbers behind him. The exterior wall was opening. If it came down in the room, it would crush him and destroy the partition that separated him from the fire. His eyes were watered by smoke and blood from his head wound. He kicked at the timbers around the crack until the small break became big enough for his arm.
It felt cool outside, and he lingered there. He searched around one more and pulled a large, six by four timber through the hole from the kitchen. He smashed the end of it into the crack, which widened it a little but not enough. So he jammed the timber in at an angle and heaved on it levering the crack. It was working, but it would surely bring the wall down. He had to carry on, the timing would need to be perfect.
Harvey readjusted the lever and pulled back on the timber, when the wall finally caved in, the rest of the roof would drop, and he'd have moments to escape before being crushed and burned alive.
The crack was widening. Harvey studied it. He looked at the ceiling hanging lower as he levered its supporting wall away. The partition wall behind him was bulging with heat and browning with the fierce fire it was holding back.
He heaved, just once more; it was final. He heard a loud splinter and fell forwards with the timber, throwing himself into the crack. It was wide enough for his torso, but he couldn't pull the rest of his body through. If the wall fell now, he'd be cut in half. He forced himself back inside and tried another angle, and was stuck fast. The timbers cut into his leg, and splintered shards of hundred-year-old oak jabbed into his thigh. Harvey reached down to the ground outside and grabbed hold of whatever he could. Thick bunches of long grass came out the ground in his hands, he scooped bigger bunches of grass, then pulled. The skin on his thigh split, the wooden shard connected with bone. Harvey growled and pulled, harder than before, harder t
han he knew he could. The shard snapped off its timber inside his leg and fell to the ground.
Harvey rolled away, sucking the cool air into his lungs and heard the sound of twenty tons of aged oak crash into the fire below. There was a whoosh of energy as the fire raised higher in a display of power.
He crawled across the ground, across the soft patch of fresh earth where who knows how many bodies had been hidden, to the fence that ran along the rear of the property. Harvey slipped between the horizontal bars to the relative safety of the field. Cool air licked his scorched skin like a puppy licks its owner.
The sound of sirens outside came loud and true over the roar of the blaze, but the thick smoke from the destroyed barn blocked any visibility.
His leg throbbed and his head pounded from the crash and the smoke.
He gripped the long shard of old oak that stuck from his leg like a mummified compound fracture and felt the searing stab of nerve endings screaming through his limbs. Without releasing his hold, he growled, gritted his teeth and pulled on the shard. With each inch of wood that came out, the pain subdued, until finally, he was able to drop the huge splinter onto the ground and lay back, panting with exhaustion.
Another wipe of blood from his eye brought firefighters into his vision. Hoses and fire trucks had surrounded the blaze. Blood ran from his leg in pulses with his heart; his entire right leg was soaked with sticky red blood.
Harvey grit his teeth once more, and tried to stand. Keeping his right leg straight, he managed to get himself upright and winced as he began to limp through the field. Anxious not to be seen by the firefighters, he tried to hurry. But pain and fatigue overcame the desire to remain unseen, and he strode as best he could through the dry mud.
Eventually, he fell through the trees and clung to his bike. He was able to perch on the seat and look at his leg.
His t-shirt sleeve was ripped, so he pulled the tear and wrapped the fabric loosely around his leg. Then, with his knife, he made a small cut in the inside of his jacket, which still hung on the bike handlebars where he'd left it, and tore out some of the cotton wadding that lined the pockets. He placed that between the material and his leg and tied the homemade field dressing tight.
Harvey pulled on his helmet carefully, avoiding the sliced skin across his forehead, then faced the challenge of getting onto the bike. His leg was too painful to swing over the back, and he couldn't stand on it to lift his good leg. He settled for laying across the bike and, very ungracefully and painfully, manoeuvred into position.
The bike started and purred into life, and he smiled faintly behind his visor. His leg had to be dragged into position onto the foot brake. Then he wormed his way out of the trees and back across the fields behind him.
The discomfort of his leg eased with the pressure of the bandage. Applying the rear brake with his leg became easier, but his head leaked blood into his eye, and the helmet prevented him from wiping it away.
Before rejoining the road at a small break in the hedgerow, Harvey stopped and pulled a plastic water bottle from the bike's panniers. He removed the helmet and cleaned his face up, before ripping his other shirt sleeve off and placing it over his head. The rest of the water he poured onto his leg wound, which stung badly, but felt better. He hadn't severed his femoral artery, but it was a nasty gash that would need to be cleaned. That could wait until after he'd finished with Donny.
16
Pigs May Fly
There was silence. The world moved in slow motion. Melody saw the cigarette being flicked from Roger's hand. It spun through the air like a firework and hit the ground at the front of the truck. The pool of fuel ran in a small but steady stream less than a foot from the burning ember.
A soft breeze, which would have been welcomed at almost any other time, gently rocked the trees on the edge of the fields, and prickled rather than stroked Melody's skin, and rolled the cigarette into the fuel.
The vapour caught the fiery end of the cigarette before the Marlboro even reached the liquid. The rush of flames popped into life like a magic trick.
Roger gazed down at Melody from the cab of the truck, he smiled the smile of a man who had won.
Melody turned and ran. She jumped from the road onto the embankment and plowed into Denver who was sending people back into the fields. They both tumbled down the unkempt grass over rocks. They landed together with a bump, in a drainage ditch at the bottom of the small hill when the flame found its way into the source of the fuel, and the tanker exploded.
A searing fireball reached out, reached up and licked everything in its reach, before mushrooming into an ungodly black cloud. The noise was deafening.
Melody and Denver turned their backs, the angle of the embankment protected them but they felt the heat wash over them. The flames rushed past just metres away.
Immediately the crowds began to scream, children started crying again, but the people were safely in the fields, spectating. They watched as their cars and vans were engulfed in the giant fireball. The closest cars caught alight and joined in the blaze. Possessions were lost, but lives had been saved.
A coolness came over Melody and Denver, and when they opened their eyes and glanced around, the land around them had been scorched to smoky and charred tufts of grass. The pair rose and ran back into the fields to a safer distance. The blaze was strong, the surrounding cars would likely explode when the pressure built inside their fuel tanks.
Melody and Denver made towards the large crowd who stood huddled together like frightened livestock. One man began to clap his hands as Denver and Melody reached safety. He was joined by another, and soon the chorus of applause increased as the whole crowd began to softly clap their hands in gratitude. There were no happy expressions, none of the joy that would typically accompany such a moment. It was just a sombre demonstration of appreciation.
"Is everybody okay?” Melody called to the crowd, her hands held high to get their attention. "Is anybody hurt?"
"Is anybody missing?" Denver followed.
The crowd shook their heads and held their families tight. Small groups of husbands, wives and children stood in contact with each other, touching. A few men stood alone, and one woman. They'd been travelling alone and now joined other people who had been travelling alone.
"Where's Reg?" asked Denver.
They both turned to face the blaze. Thick smoke poured from the vehicles and ran above the motorway like a locomotive had passed through, undeterred by the traffic that stood motionless. There was another crowd of people stood on the motorway itself, much further along than the blast.
"You think he's there?" said Melody.
“I didn’t actually see him get out the van,” said Denver.
They ran to the VW that Denver had stopped just fifty yards into the field. The single window in the back had been smashed by the truck, but the van had thankfully not been hit by the fireball. They peered into the windows, but Reg couldn't be seen. Melody wrenched the rear door open, and Reg's limp body began to roll off the van's wooden floor. Denver caught his arms before he hit the ground and pushed him back up.
He had a serious head wound, which had leaked blood across his face and pooled on the wood. A lump had formed on his forehead the size of a child's fist. Sirens in the distance kicked Melody into action. She pulled out her phone and dialled emergency services, stepping away from the van to talk to them.
Denver pulled the first aid kit from under the driver seat. He straightened Reg out and began to clean the wound, wiping the blood from his head and face. He used an open water bottle from the floor and his t-shirt to clean Reg's eyes before the blood dried and glued them shut.
Reg had a pulse, and his airways were clear so Denver made a pillow for his head. He put it in a position where the fresh blood that leaked from the wound ran away from Reg’s eyes and face. Denver began to check for breaks and foreign objects. He started with his head, worked down his shoulders, just running his hands across his skeletal frame. Most fractures would be fel
t through the body's thin skin membrane. His ribs were intact, and Denver began to ease any thoughts of serious damage. Broken ribs often tore into lungs, or caused internal bleeding, which was a common cause of death. A first aider had no way of spotting early signs of internal bleeding.
Melody joined him once she had made the call. Denver was just finishing checking Reg's legs.
"No sign of broken bones or internal bleeding, just the bump on his head," said Denver. "His spine feels okay, but let's keep him straight until the medics arrive." He began to apply a field dressing from the van's first aid kit to the head wound.
Two fire trucks made their way along the hard shoulder, and seemingly without words, they sprung into action. Each of the firefighters expertly performed their own part of the effort to ready the hoses, build the pressure, and keep the crowds away, who had since moved closer out of curiosity. The distant thump of a helicopter nearing came over the empty fields, then the bird emerged from the smoke, and began to circle. The pilot brought the helicopter down into the field, a few hundred feet from the van.
The helicopter was yellow with a green underside. Essex Air Ambulance was written in large green letters across both sides.
Denver stood with his feet together and his arms up to form the letter Y, the international sign for help.
The first medic saw him and pointed his partner in their direction. Two men in green uniforms ran the short distance carrying a stretcher between them and an emergency medical pack.
"Thank god you're here, he's been out cold for…" Melody thought about how long it had been since Denver had avoided the queue of traffic and hurled the van off-road, "ten minutes, maybe fifteen."
"He's hit his head and has a large bump and a gash on his forehead. I've checked for broken bones, and his spine feels okay,' began Denver. "He nearly fell from the van when we opened the door, so we straightened him out, that's the only time he's been moved."
"Good, thanks, what's his name?" asked the medic. He was a middle-aged man, with greying and thinning hair, but he had a kind face. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and checked Reg's eyes and airways.