The Sacrifice

by Donna Collins

  Death.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Eliza couldn’t hear anything.

  A sliver of daylight pierced a tiny hole in the corner of the back brake light and she wriggled closer, craning her neck just enough so she could look out. A canvass of cloudless blue painted the sky, and only when she raised her head could she see trees on either side. Without a landmark, the view resembled seventy percent of Cornwall, and she was none the wiser as to where Roman had driven her.

  She rolled onto her back and thumped the balls of her feet on the underside of the boot.

  She kicked again and her hands, although still tied, pounded along with them. Nothing could be heard above the succession of hammering, and between the lack of air and the rapid rise in warmth, exhaustion crippled her in less than a minute.

  She waited, expecting Roman to open the boot, but he didn’t. She tilted her head and glanced through the hole again. A light breeze whistled through, drying her eyes and causing her to blink several times while she tried to figure out where the hell she was. An engine purred in the distance, and Eliza quietened. The purring grew louder, growing into a hoarse growl, and a white van hurtled past. Eliza kicked and banged the boot again, screaming to be heard even though she knew the van would be long gone and out of earshot. She quietened again, listening for further traffic. It was pointless. A passing car would never hear her, and considering the speed at which the van raced past, they probably wouldn’t see her either.

  Eliza rolled onto her back and pushed the boot with every ounce of strength she could muster, until her arms collapsed back onto her chest. She lay there and let the ache dissolve. The boot certainly wasn’t going to open through sheer strength or determination, that was for damned sure. She needed to find another means of escape. Maybe punching out the backlight, or finding a release latch on the inside of the boot. Wasn’t that what people did on the silly television dramas she watched? But there was no latch, at least none she could find, and the backlight proved even more stubborn than the boot to move.

  “Hey!” She shuffled back onto her side and peered through the hole again. “Is anybody out there?”

  No answer.

  “Shit.” She turned her attention to the back seat, her strength all but gone. Legs drawn back, she drew a deep breath and kicked out. Her heart nearly skipped a beat when she felt the seat shift upon impact.

  Eliza craned her neck to gain a better view, pressing the soles of her feet against the cold metal again. This time, instead of kicking, she just pushed. The top corner of the seat bent away from her, and a stream of daylight shone into the boot like a torch beam. She pressed harder, her legs shaking under the pressure. The gap between the seat widened, and further daylight brightened the inside of the boot. This was it. This was her way out.

  How long she kicked and pushed she didn’t know, just like she had no idea how much time remained before Roman might catch her.

  The seat buckled under the force of her desperation, and finally it collapsed away from her. She shuffled over, pulling herself out of the boot and onto the back seat. Roman wasn’t anywhere to be seen, and she wasn’t going to wait around for him to show up. The first thing on her agenda was to get out of the car and up to the road. It didn’t matter that she was tied. She just needed to flag down a passerby.

  It wasn’t until she dragged her legs clear of the boot and sat up that she spotted Roman, half-naked, slumped over the steering wheel, his face turned away and partly covered by his arm. What on earth had happened to him? Had he crashed and knocked himself out? Was he dead? Her first instinct was to reach over and check on him. To care for him. He looked vulnerable. His eyes were closed and any hostility he’d shown towards her over the last twenty-four hours was long gone. But common sense told her different. Common sense told her to ignore him and get the hell out of there.

  She reached for the door handle. Shit. The Aston didn’t have a back door. Eliza peered over the driver’s seat. Roman’s body remained still, but that didn’t mean he was dead. After all, according to him, he couldn’t die. She honed in on the side of his neck and searched for a rhythmic pulse.

  She couldn’t see any.

  Maybe Roman was dead, or maybe he wasn’t. Eliza couldn’t tell the difference between black and white anymore. She did know one thing, though. If Roman wasn’t dead and he woke up before she got out of the car, she’d lose her chance to escape.

  As quietly as she could, she climbed over the passenger seat and pulled on the door handle. It opened, allowing the autumn breeze to rush in. Without a second to waste, she clawed her way up the verge towards the road.

  Not one car in sight. Only Roman’s zigzag tyre marks blackened the tarmac. Eliza turned back towards Roman’s car and saw for the first time the mangle of barbed wire and broken fence that tangled around the side of the vehicle. Whatever had caused the crash, she didn’t care, she just wanted away from it. Unfortunately, her options for escape were limited. She either waited in the hope that a vehicle would pass by or, in her current bound state, she jumped her way to the nearest police station. Neither alternative appealed to her.

  She studied the landscape around her, looking for a flicker of familiarity to help decipher where she was. In the far distance, and assuming she was still in Cornwall, the Atlantic Ocean met the horizon. Between the water and her current position, there were miles of fields and, in the middle of them, five wind turbines. Suddenly, Eliza knew exactly where she was: just a couple of miles from her father’s estate.

  She squatted and fell back onto her arse. Although her hands remained tied, her fingers easily worked loose the knotted rope around her ankles, and within minutes she was free and on her feet again. The rope around her wrists was harder to untie; in fact, it was impossible. Maybe something inside Roman’s car would aid her to cut through it, but she wasn’t going back in there. Tied hands would not stop her from running to her father’s house.

  Snippets of earlier conversation came to mind. Roman had not spoken well of Davis, nor of his intentions towards her. Of course, Eliza believed none of it, betting that as far as the residents of Cornwall went, sacrifices probably didn’t rate high on their list of priorities. If Davis really did plan on sacrificing her, surely she would have sensed it. Nevertheless, as she ran along the roadside towards Fowey, she found herself wanting Billy and the safety of the police station rather than the pretty pink rendering of her childhood home.

  Behind her, the warm breeze carried the hum of a car engine. She slowed her pace, her first instinct to dive behind a tree in case Roman had woken and somehow managed to get his car back on the road. Instead, she shielded her eyes from the sun and waited for the blur of the oncoming vehicle to sharpen.

  It was a red post van. Eliza ran into the middle of the road and waved her bound hands until the van slowed and pulled alongside her.

  A middle-aged man got out, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, his navy blue shorts not looking entirely Royal Mail uniform. “Are you okay?”

  “I need you to take me to Looe police station.”

  “What happened to you?”

  Eliza glanced down at her bare feet, dirt covered and desperately in need of a wash. “I need to get to the police station.”

  The man wavered, his sudden look of apprehension dissolving into a more concerned expression.

  “Please,” Eliza said. She stepped towards him and held out her hands. “I need to get this rope off and get to the police station.”

  “I have a phone—”

  “That’s great, call Looe police and ask for Officer Hamilton, but please don’t leave me here.”

  The man eyed her for a second then let out a long sigh. “Get in the van.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The Cornish fishing port of Looe had a population of just over five thousand.

  Therefore, Eliza wasn’t surprised when she raced into the police station and found it empty. The waiting area, which consisted of tw
o chairs and a magazine rack, was separated from the main office by a security door and serving window. The office was a little bigger. This had the luxury of two filing cabinets, a water cooler, and three desks. In the far corner, a doorway led out back to a six-by-eight holding cell and a toilet cubicle. As nothing exciting ever happened in Looe, the station warranted no more than three officers to run it – two of them constables. Of those constables, Billy was the brains of the outfit, while Eddie Wilkins was an energetic kid fresh out of the training programme and a little too overenthusiastic to serve and protect his community. At present – according to the local paper – Eddie was on sick leave after a failed cat rescue left him with a broken leg. Then there was Sergeant George Collins, who, in Billy’s own words, was a grouchy old git who spent the majority of his time on desk duty.

  Eliza banged her fists against the glass partitioning. She didn’t care which officer was on duty, she just wanted to see the security of their pale blue shirt and dark slacks stride into the room. It was George who walked in from the cells and hung a bunch of keys on a nearby nail. Eliza whacked the glass again, startling him. For a split second, he did nothing but stare at her. Then he rushed to the door, pressed the release button, and let her in.

  Eliza raced into his arms, allowing a moment to soak up the awkward pat on the back he consoled her with.

  “What on earth’s happened to you?” George held her at arm’s length and looked her square in the eye. “Billy was frantic when you disappeared from the hospital.”

  “Is he here?”

  George shook his head. “No doubt he’s out looking for you.” He led her towards Billy’s desk, kicked out the chair, and sat her down.

  “Can you contact him?”

  “Yes.” George wheeled his own chair beside her and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. He sat down, his heavy bulk too wide for the seat cushion, and began dabbing the side of her head. “I can also phone your father?”

  Again, Roman’s comments about Davis’ intentions came to mind, and as much as Eliza didn’t believe anything Roman had told her, something held her back from letting George make that contact. “I just need Billy.”

  George seemed to contemplate her request. “Here, hold this. Your head is bleeding.” He lifted her hand to replace his against the tissue, then walked to the front desk where a pen and a stack of unused post-its sat beside a small radio.

  He lifted the receiver and held it to his mouth. When he clicked the side button, a crackle of interference buzzed from the speaker. “Billy, you there?” He released the button and waited for a response.

  After a few seconds’ silence, he pressed the button again. “Billy, this is George. Are you there?”

  This time when he released the button, Billy’s voice bellowed out. “I’m here, but I’m in the middle of something.”

  “Eliza’s here.”

  Billy took a second to respond, and even then confusion marred his voice. “At the station? Is she alright?”

  “She’s…” George eyed Eliza from head to foot. “Dirty and tired, and looks as though she’s been dragged through a hedge backwards. How far away are you?”

  “Twenty minutes, thirty tops. Don’t let her out of your sight until I get there.”

  “Roger that.” George dropped the receiver on the counter and traipsed his bulk back to Eliza. “The way he drives, it’ll be more like ten minutes.”

  Eliza nodded. She glanced at the tissue, now blotted red with her blood, and scrunched it in her hand. It would be dark in a couple of hours, and the Shadow would come looking for her. She lifted her feet onto the chair and wrapped her arms around her knees.

  George watched her for a second, then headed to the coffee machine. He didn’t ask if she wanted anything, and just placed a wafer-thin plastic cup on the desk in front of her. “Hot chocolate. It’ll warm you up.” He whipped his coat from the back of his chair and wrapped it around her shoulders. It swamped her tiny frame, but she was glad of its size. It was something she could snuggle into and hide. She reached for the cup, ignoring the heat that scorched through the sides, and wrapped both her hands around it.

  “It’s not the best-tasting chocolate,” George said. “But it’s better than the tea and coffee crap the machine serves up.”

  Eliza sipped the brown liquid. It burned her lips and she quickly withdrew. George was right. It tasted terrible.

  “Can you tell me what happened?” George said, reclaiming the seat in front of her again.

  “I don’t know where to start.”

  “How about you start with what went down at the hospital. Where did you go?”

  Eliza took another sip of her drink. It still tasted awful, but she needed time to think. She wanted to tell George everything, but what exactly would that entail? That she’d seen zombies? And even if she bypassed that detail and just admitted to witnessing the inhuman things she’d seen Roman do, wouldn’t that in itself open up a whole new can of worms? Simple ones like, ‘what did this guy look like?’ were fine, but the easy questions would inevitably lead to harder ones about what Roman had told her, and how would she answer those? ‘He said I am a descendant of the Messiah and that my father’s butler wants to kill me.’ George would think her nuts, and knowing how her mouth had a mind of its own, she’d continue trying to justify her sanity with, ‘No, really, I know he’s telling the truth because I really can move things with my mind.’

  Instead, Eliza stuck with the safe bet, and said, “I don’t know anything, I’m sorry.”

  “Didn’t you see what happened?”

  You mean the zombies? Eliza shook her head.

  George shifted a little closer. “There was a man there. Did you see him?”

  You mean the Grim Reaper who killed the zombies and then kidnapped me? Eliza shook her head again. “All I know is I didn’t wake up in the hospital.”

  George studied her for a moment, then leaned back in his chair. “Where did you wake up?”

  “Somewhere in Fowey.”

  “‘Somewhere’ is pretty vague. Were you in a house? A barn? Outside?”

  “I was in the boot of a car.”

  “Was anyone else there?”

  Eliza thought of Roman’s body slumped over the steering wheel. Again, the truth would lead to awkward questions she only wanted to speak to Billy about. She shook her head. “I just ran.”

  “Can you remember what sort of car it was? Or where it was? Think hard.”

  “No, I just ran.”

  “All the way here? From Fowey?”

  “A postman drove me.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. Gone. Said he didn’t want to get involved.”

  George rubbed his chin, and smiled. The corners of his mouth didn’t even dent his chubby cheeks. His eyes remained unmoving and suspicious. “Okay. It’s all okay. You’ve been through a lot.” He stood and pulled the waist of his trousers up, where it would have stayed if the overhang of his stomach hadn’t gotten in the way.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I need the john. I won’t be long. You’re safe. No one can get in here.” George turned and disappeared through the door at the back of the office.

  Eliza watched him leave, and once again tried to drink some of her hot chocolate. The taste hadn’t improved, and she put it down on the desk. The station was quiet. No phones rang, and no members of the public came in to report stolen bikes or complain about their neighbours. Eliza began to wonder what the three police officers actually did all day.

  Somewhere out by the back of the office, she thought she heard a voice. She waited, expecting George to appear, but he didn’t. She leaned over in the chair and tried to see along the narrow hallway. Everything was empty and quiet… apart from the voice, muffled and low.

  “George? Is that you?”

  The voice stopped.

  A second later, George reappeared at the doorway, pulled up his flies, and flatten
ed down his comb-over.

  “I thought I heard voices. Are we here alone?”

  George scratched his rotund stomach, where dried egg yolk and a splash of decaf looked to be the shirt stain of the day. “No one here but you and me, love. Must be that overworked imagination of yours.” An open tin of Quality Street sat beside his computer keyboard. He plucked out a sweet, unwrapped it, and popped it into his mouth. His eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

  He glanced at the full cup of chocolate. “Told you it was bad,” he said, picking chocolate from his teeth. “So are you feeling better, or do I need to call an ambulance?”

  “I feel fine.” But Eliza felt far from fine.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  “Where is she?” Billy burst through the station doors, nearly falling arse over tit.

  Eliza spun the office chair to face him. His clothes, rumpled and marred with sweat and grime, looked to be the same ones he’d worn to the hospital the morning before. Perspiration glistened across his forehead, most probably from his hasty return to the station, and he wiped it clean with the cuff of his shirt, adding yet more grot to the already grubby material.

  George buzzed him through, and mumbled something about needing to take a whiz again.

  Billy pushed open the door, still an urgency to his movements. “Where the hell have you been? Are you alright?”

  Eliza nodded. “You look cross.”

  Billy’s shoulders slumped and loosened a little. He parked his behind in the seat previously occupied by George. “Cross? No. Worried? Yes. I went to the hospital. That man… He took you, didn’t he? ”

  Eliza nodded.

  Billy shifted in the chair the same way George had, only minus the excess bulk. He took her hands in his. “And are you okay? Did he hurt you? Did he—”

  “Billy, I’m fine. He didn’t do anything to me.”

  “He kidnapped you, Lizzy.”

  Eliza hushed him again. She glanced towards the cell doorway. George was nowhere to be seen.