The Path to Destruction (A World Torn Down Book 4)

by Rebecca Fernfield

  “Say that again,” a woman’s voice sounds from behind and a weight like a stone seems to drop in his belly.

  He swivels again on his heels and comes face to face with the tall blonde who’d leafed through the trashy magazines only minutes ago. The smaller woman at her side looks up at him, her eyes, narrow with accusation, scanning his face.

  “Yes,” he blurts with self-loathing. “You heard right. I’m the man who killed the world. Morgan Industries was responsible for developing the plague virus. I’m the one who agreed to the research. And yes, I was in talks with the North Koreans when it was stolen and set free. The rest you know,” he says gesturing to the empty road.

  The women stare at him with open mouths and they stand in a deadlock of silence.

  “We should get Jackson,” the small woman says quietly to the blonde.

  “He hung Frank for stealing a packet of crisps. What’s he going to do with this one?”

  The hairs on Dan’s neck prickle, and a cold-sweat breaks out across his forehead. The temperature has suddenly dropped around him. “Jackson?” he questions.

  “Jackson,” the petite woman repeats. “My boyfriend.”

  “He hung a man?” Lina questions.

  “Yes. Frank. He stole some food.”

  “Where’ve you come from anyway?” Lina asks from behind Dan’s shoulder, her voice sounds a little shaky.

  “From across the river. Why?”

  “Nothing. I just wondered.”

  “What are you doing here, Dan?” the tall woman asks.

  “I’ve come to find food. We’ve run out.”

  “We?” Lina asks.

  “Yes, me and …” he stops as he realises the women are hanging onto his every word. Threat hangs heavy in the air, and he steps back, knocking into Lina. “Sorry!” He takes a step past her. The two women move forward. “It’s getting late. Lina,” he says turning to the girl. “I’m sorry … for everything,” he whispers with heartfelt apology then turns and runs.

  He half expects the thud of running to sound behind him, but when he gets to the corner of the chemists and turns back to look, the two women are watching him and holding Lina by the elbow. The girl is pulling but the tall blonde seems so much stronger and Lina can’t break free. He should go back and help. Rooted to the spot, he watches as the woman yanks at Lina’s elbow then drops her grip. Lina’s reaction is instant; she runs across the road, arms pumping hard at her side towards him. Surely she’s not coming to him!

  “Dan! Wait.”

  “What is it, Lina?” he asks confused.

  “I just wanted to say … I know what you did is unforgiveable, but Cassie loved you, and she was – is – a good woman. She must have seen good in you and my mum, she always said, that everyone deserves a second chance.”

  He looks bewildered as she regains her breath, but holds her gaze as a flush warms on his cheeks.

  “I never meant for this to happen,” he says with relief and emotion rising, tears beginning to well in his eyes. “I was greedy and I was wrong, but I had no idea … no idea what kind of hell it would cause. You’re kind Lina, but I don’t think I can ever be forgiven for this. If the justice system were still … well, I’d be sentenced to life or worse.”

  She holds his gaze whilst he speaks, but doesn’t respond. He can’t blame her. She’s just a kid after all. After a moment, she breaks eye contact and looks up the road.

  “I know they want you dead.”

  Cold washes over him again.

  “Deacon—he says he wants you dead. I think it’s what he lives for now, that and punishing Saskia, but if you didn’t know what the virus would do, then you can’t really be blamed for it. If you explained it—like you’ve just explained to me …”

  “It sounds like there’s a lot of people who want me dead, Lina,” he replies as dread courses through him. “This Deacon—is he looking after you?”

  “Yeah. Me and Finn, and there’s Carl now too. We help each other.”

  “Good. I’m glad of that. Listen. I’m going now. You go back to Deacon and Finn and I’ll go back to … to my home.” He turns and begins to step away.

  “Will I see you again, Dan? Will you come back?” she calls as he walks up the hill towards the pub at the top.

  “No. I don’t think so,” he replies and picks up his pace.

  “Wait. I’m going back that way.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, we live in the pub at the top of the road.”

  “Then I’d better take a different road, Lina,” he says flatly and strides across the road, heading for the church. Turning back, the women are walking up the road with the man at their side. He’d better take a different route home. If they’re serious about telling this bloke Jackson, then, by the sound of it, he was in real trouble. He picks up his pace to a run, adrenaline helping to push him forward, and darts into the churchyard. If they were going to follow him, he wouldn’t make it easy.

  Chapter 15

  Finn pulls at the rabbit’s skin, slicing at the membrane that holds it to the flesh. It peels away easily and she detaches it with satisfaction. She’s become quite an expert over the past weeks at preparing the meat that Deacon brings home. Slicing its belly open, she guts it, checks the innards for disease, then lays them on the paper. She likes a clean kitchen, and, short on water, old newspaper will protect the table’s top from becoming a bloodied and germ-infested mess. Three knocks sound at the front doors.

  “Lina’s back,” she calls through to Deacon.

  “Carl!” he calls. “Open up for Lina. She’ll be at the back door.”

  “Sure,” he responds.

  Things just seem to be slotting into place. Carl had. He’d already helped chop wood this afternoon, and done it with a smile and a joke. He fitted in with them just right.

  “Hi!” Finn calls as Lina walks in through the door, unwinding her scarf from about her neck. She’s flushed and her breathing comes heavy. “What is it?” she asks, sensing something odd about the girl.

  Lina remains silent as Carl walks back in and passes them on his way through to the lounge. Following him, Lina closes the door with a soft touch then turns to look at Finn, her eyes wide and holding her gaze.

  “What is it?” Finn asks with genuine concern.

  “Dan!”

  “What?”

  “I’ve seen Dan—you know, Dan Morgan, Cassie’s husband.”

  “Was Cassie with him?”

  “No. No, he was alone, but he did mention ‘we’-”

  “You talked to him?”

  “Yes. He said he was sorry.”

  Finn looks at Lina in confusion.

  “Said he was sorry about … about killing everyone.”

  “Said he was sorry, did he?” Deacon’s voice sounds in a low boom as he steps up from the pantry.

  “Oh! Deacon, you scared me,” she says taking a step away.

  “So where is he now?” he asks.

  “Deacon! You scared her.”

  “I said where is he now?”

  “He went towards the church. He didn’t want to come past the pub.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, there were some women and they said that Jackson would have him hung and then I said you wanted him dead too-”

  “Women?” Finn interrupts.

  “Yes, at the paper shop. There were two women, from that gang that have taken over the football field. They heard me and Dan talking. They came out and said Jackson had hung Frank and wondered what he’d do to Dan!”

  Finn stares in wonder at Lina trying to process the information.

  “So, where is he?” Deacon asks.

  “He went up towards the church. That’s all I know.”

  “Where’s he going?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Finn watches as Deacon’s scowl deepens and he takes hold of Lina’s arm.

  “Ow! Deacon, that hurts.”

  “You’d better be telling me the truth.”

&nb
sp; “Deacon! Lina doesn’t lie. You know that,” Finn says, shocked at the threat in his voice. She knows his anger runs deep, but she won’t let him hurt Lina, even if she does feel a little afraid. He looks at her and she holds his gaze until his scowl softens.

  “Sorry!” he says turning to Lina and drops her arm. “It’s just … I’m going out.”

  “To find Dan?”

  “Yes, to find Dan.”

  Grabbing his coat from the back of the chair, he thrusts his arms through the sleeves then grabs his boots, ties them with deft fingers and stands to open the door.

  Pulling the zipper of his jacket, the double doors to the pub’s entrance bang closed behind him, and Deacon stares down the road, his breath billowing white in the cold. A trio of people, one man and two women, walk across the road at the bottom of the hill and then take the road that leads to the outer edges of the town. They must be the ones Lina mentioned, the ones that have taken over the football club. They continue oblivious to Deacon and he dismisses them from his thoughts as he takes a short cut to the church yard. Picking up his pace, he runs. Unused to the exercise, his thighs begin to burn and he’s irritated by his sloth. Slacker! Tomorrow he’d start running again. One thing was for sure, if he was to survive – no, thrive - he needed to stay strong. Tomorrow, once he’d done with Dan Morgan, he’d be back to working his body. He takes a long, hard breath and his chest swells with anger as he focuses his hate on Dan Morgan’s face, remembering the image he’d had on his screensaver back home, remembering the pathetic excuse for a man staring back with defiance at the cameras as the journalists pushed their microphones up into his face and the horde of angry protestors swarmed around him. They should have torn him limb from limb! If he’d been there … He powers his thigh muscles and his boots pound against the tarmac as he crosses the road to the churchyard. Anger grows with each stride and it’s thrilling.

  The first signs of spring are showing on the huge tree overhanging the graves next to the ancient church. Deacon sticks to the path that winds through the graveyard, the walls of the church massive to his right, its huge wooden doors closed. A memory catches at him: he’s kneeling with his mother in the pews of their church, his breath swirling around his prayer-held hands, his head bent. Christ hangs high above the altar, dying on the cross, guarded by St. Mary in her blue robes, her head lowered in prayer. He’d felt peace then. Perhaps once he’d finished off Dan—perhaps he’d come back—see if the doors were open? He looks up at the weathered stone and the huge wooden doors with their thick braces and heavy hinges. A gargoyle stares down at him—goads him—laughs at him. Hah! Peace. As if he could ever feel that again! He turns his head back to the path and down the steep slope that will take him out of the churchyard and his shins burn. Where the hell was the man?

  Skidding to a stop at the bottom of the road, he looks first left then right. No sign of Dan. Anger growls deep in his chest. To the left the road is straight. To the right it curves. He must have taken the right and that’s why he can’t be seen. In the next second, Deacon is following the curving road. Surely Dan can’t be that far away? He must be around the next corner. The road begins to climb again and Deacon’s chest heaves, his ribs begin to pinch, and he feels a stitch coming on. Instead of slowing down, he pushes harder. He’d have Dan Morgan today if it killed him. The road dissects again and there’s still no sign of him, but if he came through the church it makes sense that he’s heading for one of the villages out of town and there’s only one road that will take him there unless he cuts across the fields.

  Deacon scans the road ahead and decides to follow it. He’ll have to go past the warehouse, but being seen by Saskia or Sergei is a chance he’ll take. His mind flickers back to Murray and a wave of guilt rides over him. Once this is over, if the body is still there, he’ll bury it. Murray doesn’t deserve it, of that he’s sure, but he, Deacon, is still human.

  As he finally slows, the stitch in his side becoming unbearable, an engine starts in the distance and then another. Must be that gang at the football club, going out again. He frowns as he looks in the direction of the football grounds. Where did they go each day? Once he got a little further up this road he’d be at the back of the pitch. Perhaps he’d get a chance to see what they were up to. The heavy thrum of engines, perhaps three or four, fills the air and grows louder as he crosses the road and continues his walk. The road intersects with a junction and, looking down, Deacon catches sight of the first of the motorbikes. He stops for a moment and watches as others join it and then the group takes a left, straight towards him. He runs a short distance to the next house and jumps over the wall, crouching low as the heavy thrum of the bikes grows and they reach the junction, then turn onto his road. From behind a shrub, he watches as they pass. Five in all. He’s surprised. In his imagination, he’d had them down as a biker gang, but now that he’s seen them close up, it’s obvious they’re ordinary bikers—apart from the leader whose leathers are well worn, the others look as though they’ve just visited a bike shop and bought brand new protective clothing. Perhaps so. Perhaps they were just a bunch of survivors who’d gotten together and used bikes. It made sense. Bikes used far less petrol and it was easier to navigate the roads, especially since so many were blocked with crashed cars and lorries. As they turn the corner further up the road, Deacon jumps out and runs again, stitch or no stitch, he was going to find Dan and make him pay.

  Chapter 16

  Jackson signals for the others to pull over then slows his bike to a stop outside the gates of the warehouse. A perimeter of spiked aluminium posts surrounds the compound, hawthorn trees, littered with the first signs of spring, soften their hard lines. He loved the spring with its blossom and fresh sense of hope and renewal. Beyond the line of trees and metal posts, two vast breezeblock and corrugated steel warehouses sit on concrete, harsh and grey. At least whoever put them up had painted the metal blue, it blended with the sky if you stood at the right angle. He hated what Man had done to the world, wasn’t sorry that humans had all but died out. Perhaps nature would have a chance to put things right. He sighs, pulls off his helmet, and turns to Aaron at his side.

  “This is where you saw them then?”

  “Yep.”

  “No sign of them now.”

  “No, but there’s a chain locked from the inside.”

  “Let’s have the bolt cutters.”

  Aaron pulls back the heavy bike onto its stand as Jackson dismounts. If they weren’t going to come outside, then they’d just have to go in. He’d given up with pleasantries a few weeks ago. Learnt his lesson about trusting any of the survivors. Even in his own group he was wary. Best way to treat people now - best way keep them in line and make sure they didn’t try and get one over on you- was to take a hard stand and be the one they were afraid of. It was sad, but human nature being what it was, and given that they were all scrabbling in the mud to survive, you had to be ruthless to stay alive.

  “Thanks,” he says as Aaron unclips the bolt cutters from the chain over his shoulder. Walking up to the gates he takes another look around. Nothing. No movement, no sign of life. “Kane, Abe, Aaron. Keep your eyes peeled. I want to know the second you see any movement.”

  “Got it.”

  They move about behind him, parking their bikes, and setting them on their stands, as he crouches down to the chain threaded through the gate’s handles, the padlock dangling on the inside. The bolt cutters slide through the gaps easily and bites the chain’s links between its sharp sliding blades.

  “Like butter!” he says with satisfaction as the blades slice through the chain’s link.

  “They don’t make it like they used to—the metal,” Abe comments. “Cheap Chinese crap—low quality. I gave up buying new. Just not worth it. The missus—she gave me a right bollocking for wrecking the walls at home trying to put up a picture hook. Bloody thing wouldn’t hammer in—just kept bending. Then I found an old one—went in no problem.”

  “OK, Abe! Can we save the DIY
lessons for later?” Jackson says with a laugh at the man’s irrelevant ramblings.

  “Sure—it’s just that—they pissed me right off—importing that cheap Chinese crap. When they took over Brit-”

  “Abe! They’re all dead anyway. Makes no odds anymore.”

  “Yeah—just left us with a load of cheap tat cluttering up-”

  “Abe, if you want to talk economics we’ll do it later. OK, bud? Right now, we’ve got this to do,” he says gesturing to the warehouse.

  “Which one was it that you said they went inside?”

  “The one on the right.”

  “OK. Let’s go then,” he says sliding the chain out of its brackets. The chain falls with a clank to the concrete floor and he stands as he pulls it away from the gate. Abe reaches in and slides back the bolt then pushes at the gates. They open with ease.

  “Ready?” he asks turning to the others before pulling his helmet back on. If they got nasty then at least he was protected. He takes quick steps back to his bike and reaches into the panniers. His hand wraps around the metal shaft of an industrial sized spanner. The weight reassuring as he pulls it out, he turns back to his men, each one holds a weapon of some sort: Abe an axe, Aaron and Kane hammers, and Tom a hunting knife. As he leads them to the door, there’s still no movement. Adrenaline surges and his heart pounds harder. He likes a good fight—always has done; there was something so satisfying about making the enemy cower down, and these were enemies, until proven otherwise, and even then, he’d never trust them. After the city, no one could be trusted. As he raises his fist to hammer on the door a bolt slams into place and the door vibrates. He smiles. They know he’s here, and they’re afraid.