THE ROUTE TO JUSTICE
A World Torn Down Series Book 5
Rebecca Fernfield
THE ROUTE TO JUSTICE
A WORLD TORN DOWN SERIES
BOOK 5
By
Rebecca Fernfield
Ebook first published in 2017 by REDBEGGA LIMITED
Copyright REDBEGGA LIMITED
The moral right of Rebecca Fernfield to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Author Notes
Also by Rebecca Fernfield
Chapter 1
10 Months After Breakout
Early Summer
Saskia looks up to the sky, it’s clear blue with the merest whiff of a cloud. She sighs, stands, and pushes her hips forward as she stretches out her back. Wiping her hand across her brow, she leaves a grainy trail of mud.
“Those carrots won’t lift themselves, Sis,” Sergei calls across the plot of mud.
Clods of earth, angular, jutting, and heavy with the green shoots of weeds and grass dry in the sun.
“I’m tired,” she moans, “and my hands are …” she looks down at the mud smeared into the whorls and lines of her fingers, “filthy!” She holds them away from her body, rubbing at the soil and letting the crumbs fall to the earth. “I told you, Sergei. This is not a job for a woman.”
“Of course it is,” he calls back with a laugh.
“Well, not this one. I told you before, digging in the dirt isn’t something I want to do.”
“Well …” he says, thrusting the spade into the soil and staring across at her. She stares back in defiance, waiting for his lecture—God, if she wasn’t tired of it! “We’d have Carl here-”
“Pah!” she spits. “Don’t mention that tosser’s name to me.”
“We’d have Carl here,” he repeats with a meaningful look, “if you’d treated him better.”
“I don’t care! He can go to hell as far as I’m concerned. He will if I have anything to do with it—bloody traitor.”
“Yeah, well, he shouldn’t have left, but what I’m saying is, he was a grafter and he knew about growing vegetables and stuff. He had an allotment—grew his own veg over by the dump.”
“The dump!”
“Yeah, you know—where the gypsy camp was down Far Ings—near the recycling.”
“Oh, that’s where it is!”
“How long have you lived here, Sis? Only your whole life!” he laughs.
“Why would I want to know where the dump was? Or the allotment! And I haven’t lived here my whole life—I worked in New York for a-”
“My point is—if we’d had Carl here, you wouldn’t have to dig and get your nails chipped, but you’ve only got yourself to blame for that!” he finishes and turns back to the spade. He pulls it out of the soil then thrusts it back in, cutting out a sod of earth and throwing it to the growing pile at the side of the fence. “We might not be starving to death then,” he mutters.
“I heard that!”
“Well, it’s true.”
Hands on hips, she looks around the garden. The lawn has been transformed into strips of dark soil and in them grow various sprouting green shoots. Earlier in the year, in desperation, they’d planted carrots and potatoes. Sergei had even found some seeds of kale, broccoli and cucumbers.
“Is this a weed?” she asks bending down and grasping at a plant’s frilled leaves.
Sergei looks up. “No, that’s a carrot. Pull it gently and it should come out.”
She grasps her hands around the leaves and pulls. They break away from whatever they’re attached to under the soil with a snap and she stumbles backwards.
“Steady!” Sergei calls with a hint of amusement.
She scowls in his direction and grabs the garden fork from the grass, bends again and stabs at the earth. She wouldn’t be beaten by a flippin’ carrot! Pushing the fork deep into the earth, she hooks it under the root. As the earth lifts, the metal of the fork bends, but the orange skin of a carrot peeks from the dark soil.
“I got one!” she calls in triumph, and brushes at the dirt then pulls it further out of the earth. “And there’s more! Oh!” she calls as she pulls at the stems of the other carrots loosened as she broke the soil around them.
“What is it?”
“They’re crap!”
“What?” Sergei asks and steps towards her.
The carrots in her hand are nothing like the ones she was used to seeing at the supermarket. Those were bright, clean and straight, unless they were already chopped. She preferred them that way—less time spent messing about, more time to do what she really wanted. These, however, were stubby and crooked, with black in the creases along their skin.
“What’s wrong with them?” she asks holding the carrots aloft, disgust pulling her lips into a hard pout.
“I dunno. Disease?”
“They look like something’s eaten them too,” she says peering closer. Holes, some perfectly circular, others oblong in shape, all deep, are peppered across the orange flesh.
“Could be,” Sergei agrees as he steps up to her and scrutinizes the offending root.
“Ugh!” Saskia says in disgust and throws the bunch to the bramble thicket growing along the fence.
“Told you! Carl would know what to do.”
“Oh, shut up about Carl, Sergei,” she says looking in despair at the turned earth and the weeds sprouting out of the clods. “What’re we going to eat if we can’t grow stuff?” Ever since the warehouse had burned down they’d had to scavenge for every morsel they ate and the weight was falling off them both. S
ergei doesn’t answer, just stares up into the sky. “Don’t answer then,” she mutters. Her back and arms ache from digging. If only she had someone to do it for her. “Sergei,” she says as an idea forms. “We need help.”
“What?” he asks as he turns and stares at her. “Help? I’ve never heard you admit that before—that you need help.”
“I don’t mean it that way. What I mean is that we need someone to do this for us. We need a team of people digging and planting.”
“We’ve got Loz—for now.”
“We need more than just Loz. No, what I mean is we need a workforce.”
“A workforce?”
“Yeah, people who would do as we tell them, get them to do the hard work, people who aren’t going to run off like Carl did.”
“Like slaves?”
“Well, that’s a bit harsh,” she says with a smirk. The thought of having slaves had never occurred to her. “They’d be employees,” she explains. “We’d pay them.”
“Hah! What with?”
“I dunno—give them somewhere to live, feed them.”
“And where are we going to get this workforce from?”
“Well, I’ve been thinking. There must be other survivors around here. I mean in each town across England there must be other people, like the ones that came to the supermarket last year.”
“The kids and that blonde bit?”
“Yes, the kids, and,” she pauses as thoughts swirl, gel, and become a plan, “there were teenagers.” She can’t help a smile of satisfaction slipping onto her lips. “Teenagers are strong and kids will do anything for food.”
“So, you want us to go out and find some kids to work for us?”
“Yes,” she nods. “We’d be doing them a favour.”
“Well-”
“Well, what are you waiting for?” she says with determination. “There’s plenty of towns and villages round about. Let’s go look.”
Chapter 2
Deacon rolls over onto his side and slides his arm over Finn’s naked hip. He looks back to the window—mid-morning by the look of the sun, time to get up. He strokes her side and she murmurs as he leans forward and kisses the nape of her neck. The skin is soft and she’s warm from sleep.
“Time to get up, babe,” he says, his voice soft as he plants gentle kisses on her shoulders and pulls her to him until their bodies touch. The thrill of holding her close is intoxicating. Stroking her belly, he slips his hand between her legs, stroking at the soft hair, his fingers teasing. She groans and pushes her hips to his hand. A flush has risen onto her cheeks as she rolls onto her back and tips her head back into the pillow. Another murmur follows as he strokes at her.
“Ready?” he asks then reaches down to kiss her mouth. She returns his passion and slides her arm across his back.
“Uhuh!” she replies.
“Good,” he whispers, the need for her insistent now.
With the bedclothes thrown off, and the sun warming his back, he moves rhythmically above her and loses himself to their love until his senses are overwhelmed by the explosion of ecstasy that burns through him. As he kneels before her with eyes closed, still buried deep in her warmth, his hands clasped over her knees, memories of another love surface. Jules lies before him, her blue eyes smiling. He lets the memory sit for a moment then pushes it away. Jules belongs to another life and he doesn’t want his memories to intrude here. They’re locked away—safe and waiting for him when he wants to remember them. This time, this life, is for Finn. The pain of Jules’ memory flickers over him, dampens then disappears as he looks down at the woman lying before him. Her cheeks are flushed, and her chest is pink to the dimple at the base of her throat. She’s smiling though her eyes are closed. Her love is a revelation to him. He’d given up on it - since Jules - never thought he could love another woman. He can’t help but compare them both, but each is unique, and he loves them in different ways. Jules was his soulmate—no one could ever replace her, but Finn … Finn had rescued him—brought him back to life—they were surviving together and, in the bleakness of this new world, that was more than he could have ever hoped for.
He pulls away from her and she groans with pleasure for the final time.
“Time to get up,” he repeats.
“Hah! You’ve said that already and look where it got us.”
He chuckles as he stands at the side of the bed and she sits up, swinging her legs to the floor. Downstairs clanking sounds from the kitchen.
“Carl and Finn are up and about,” she says as she moves across the room to the dresser with the bowl of water.
Deacon pulls on his trousers as he watches Finn wash, fascinated by the smooth movements of her body—almost like a dance as she sweeps the wet cloth over her skin.
“They are,” he replies as he buckles his belt. “I’ll put the kettle on,” he says stepping up behind her and pulling her body close. He smiles back at her reflection in the mirror, tightens his grip momentarily, then sighs and lets her go. He could spend all day wrapped up with her in bed—and all night. His passion for her is strong, but they have work to do. Without the extra meat they’d been able to scavenge from the houses, or steal from the warehouse, they were completely reliant on what he could catch in the surrounding fields and woodlands.
“Are you checking the traps again today?” she asks as he steps through the door and onto the landing.
“Yep, and I’m already late,” he says.
“Hah! Don’t blame me,” she laughs.
“Well, you shouldn’t be so damned sexy.”
“Pah!” she laughs again and he smiles as he steps with a light foot down the stairs.
“Do you want tea or coffee,” he shouts back up to her. At least they still had those essentials although, at the last stocktake, their supplies were dwindling—rapidly. Carl liked his coffee! He wasn’t about to stop him that small pleasure, but heck, if he didn’t slow down it’d all be gone.
“Tea, please—white, no sugar.”
“Very funny!” he calls back. The sugar had all gone a month ago and they hadn’t had milk since … well, since the end.
He walks through to the kitchen, appreciating the warmth from the light flooding in through the window, and the freshness of the air sweeping in through the open backdoor. Movement at the door frame catches his attention and he watches as a cat, it’s dark grey fur glinting in the sun, walks across to him and winds itself about his leg.
“Now then fella,” he says and bends down to pick it up. Dave purrs and rubs his head with insistence at Deacon’s chin. “Want some water?” he offers as he picks up the jug from the counter, bends to the floor and pours some into the saucer there.
“He left us presents,” Lina remarks as she steps back through the open door with a small pile of chopped logs hugged to her chest.
“Morning,” Deacon replies.
“More like afternoon,” Carl reprimands with a chuckle. “Nothing like a bit of how’s your fath-”
“Carl!” Finn blurts as she walks into the kitchen.
“I was just going to say, nothing like a bit of fresh air-” he laughs with mock innocence.
“Presents, Lina?” Deacon cuts in, deflecting the conversation.
“Yep. Dave left two rats at the front door this morning—or last night. I found them there when I went to get the logs.”
“You know what that means?” Carl asks bending to stroke the cat.
“Nope! Tell us.”
“It means he thinks we’re useless humans. That we can’t hunt for ourselves, so he’s helping us out.”
Lina laughs and Deacon chuckles. Carl was a font of knowledge about the natural world.
“Well, I shall just have to go and check the traps to prove him wrong,” he smiles catching Lina’s eyes.
“Aye, well, if there’s owt left in them this time of day!” Carl says with a knowing glance at Finn.
She catches Deacon’s eye and laughs.
“It’s her fault,” Deacon retorts
with a smirk.
“You cheeky mare!” Finn laughs back.
“Well, that’s as maybe,” Carl continues with good humour. “But seriously, we’ve got a hard day’s graft ahead of us. That allotment won’t keep itself tidy and I’ve got me nets to put over the new lettuce that’s poking up—if they’re still there. I think we’ve got a rabbit warren growing close by.”
“Oh?” Deacon asks. “I’ll set my traps up there today then.”
“I’m leaving in a minute,” Carl says reaching for his cap from the back door. “You can walk with me if you like.”
“We’ll be there later, Carl,” Lina says as she reaches for a cup. “Tea?”
“Please,” Deacon replies with a smile though his thoughts are already at the allotment, figuring out the best place to set his traps. He’ll check it over, find their runs, then set a good few.
Chapter 3
Rick watches as Cassie squats down and places her hand across Celie’s forehead. The child looks pale and her head nods forward as she sits at the kitchen table.
“Go back to bed, Celie,” Cassie says holding the child’s chin in her hand and looking down into her face. “Your temperature’s up and the glands in your throat are still swollen.”
Celie nods, opens her mouth to speak, grimaces, then closes it shut.
“Throat hurt?” Rick asks. Celie nods and Rick looks on with concern at the paleness of her face.
The Route to Justice: A post-apocalyptic survival thriller (A World Torn Down Book 5) Page 1