The Route to Justice: A post-apocalyptic survival thriller (A World Torn Down Book 5)

by Rebecca Fernfield

  “I know! Taking it all to one place was a bad idea—but at the time I thought I was doing the right thing—making sure we had enough to live on. It’s all gone now though, and we’ve tried growing our own vegetables—Sergei and me—well we worked so hard over the summer to try and grow our own, and when we came to dig them up they were rotten.”

  “Oh?” Carl replies only half listening to her as she speaks, enjoying the feeling of her slim body against his.

  “Yes, and now we’re going to starve unless we get some help.”

  “Starve?”

  “Yes! Starve. I have no idea how to grow stuff and neither does Sergei, though he says he does, but …”

  “Yes?”

  “But you do,” she says pulling away and looking over the allotment.

  A cold fear rises uncontrollably in Carl’s belly as he sees the greed flicker in her eyes.

  “Oh. But this is for Deacon and … and the girls. They’ve been working hard all summer.”

  “Oh … yes, I know that and … and I wouldn’t dream of taking any of it—you don’t need to worry about that.” Carl sighs in relief—a fight with Saskia is not something he could stomach. “No, I was just hoping that …”

  “Yes?”

  “That you’d teach me?”

  “Teach you?”

  “Yes, teach me how to grow crops so that I can get the kids to-”

  “Kids?”

  “Oh, didn’t you know? I’ve got some orphans that I’ve adopted—it’s for them really that I need your help.”

  Carl struggles. If Deacon finds out that he’s helping Saskia—even if she does have some kids in tow now—well, the look of betrayal in his eyes that he imagines he’d get would be unbearable.

  “I dunno, Saskia. I shouldn’t even be talking to you—I mean those boys died in the shop because of you. I don’t think Deacon would-”

  “Deacon! What’s he got to do with me and the kids starving to death?” she spits. He pulls back, the spite in her eyes a warning. She softens immediately and rubs her hand up and down his back. “I … I’m so sorry about what happened, Carl. You have no idea how much I’ve suffered—the sleepless nights I’ve had. I know I’ll go to hell …” she looks away and a tear rolls over her lashes and spills onto her cheek. His chest tightens with a dull pain. She turns to him again, remorse clear in her eyes and he softens to her. She’s been through hell, he can see that, perhaps the past months have changed her? She presses her arm around his back again and lays her head on his chest then tips her face to him and closes her eyes, her lips - her full and slightly parted lips - offered to him. The urge overwhelms him again and he bends down, pressing his lips gently onto hers. She returns the pressure and flicks her tongue against his teeth and slips her hand behind his head, her other hand moving over the cheek of his arse. Losing sense of the day, he pulls her to him and disappears into the softness of her lips and her body. “Oh, Carl,” she sighs as she reaches for his belt.

  Chapter 10

  A dog, its back lean, the vertebrae delineated along the ridge of its spine, runs parallel to Cassie as she pulls out onto the road. At first, vacant streets had been a shock to the system, but now, all these months after the plague emptied the world, seeing something moving is unnerving and Cassie slows down to let the animal run ahead. Although the road is devoid of moving traffic it is far from empty: cars line the streets as they always would have at this time of day, but their windows are fogged and, as she slows to peer closer, she realises the fog has the green tinge of mould and the bodywork is spattered with layers of dust that seems to be darkening at the bottom of the car doors.

  Ahead, the road is blocked by the wreckage of a large removal van crashed into the parked cars to its left. Behind it, another car sits crumpled and rammed into the van’s back door. The dog disappears beyond the van in the direction of a pillar of smoke curling into the sky about half a mile away. As she turns the wheel to do a U-turn, a familiar sign, just beyond the wrecked van, catches her eye; a blue lozenge with swirling white lettering reads ‘Boots’. Just what she’s looking for—a chemist. She pulls the car round then reverses it between two parked cars with expert precision. As she reaches to turn off the ignition, an amber light flashes on the dashboard and her hand tightens around the steering wheel. The fuel indicator is in the red. She slams her hand against the wheel and turns off the engine before checking in the boot for the spare petrol cans. Why hadn’t she checked the level earlier? Such a stupid mistake and Rick had even mentioned it to her the night before! Reaching in to the boot of the car, she pulls at the can—empty! She stands, looks up and down the street at the myriad cars then takes a breath to calm herself. She has an empty can, a toolkit and a length of hose—enough for what she needs. She’ll syphon off the fuel from one of the cars as soon as she’s been to the chemist’s. She closes the boot with a gentle push, locks the doors with the key fob, checks up and down the street for movement then walks at a quick pace to the shop.

  As she approaches the chemist her heart sinks. Shattered glass crunches beneath her feet and although the windows of the shop are still intact, one of the doors has been smashed through. She steps up into the shop and looks around at the shelves. They’re sparsely stacked, although given that somebody has obviously already been here, there’s more stuff on the shelves than she expected. A stack of oval, wire baskets sits next to the counter. She takes one, hooks it over her arm and walks along the first aisle, taking anything that will be useful at home. She fills one basket with shampoos, conditioners, and face creams, then reaches with relief for the deodorants. Although she’d gotten used to wiping her armpits a couple of times a day, and the earthier smell of Rick and Zak, having them smell fresher for longer would be a relief. She unscrews the top, holds the roller ball to her nose, and inhales. The scent is floral, but with chemical undertones that seem unfamiliar now—she’s not sure whether she prefers the earthiness of Rick after all.

  Further along there are boxed sets of perfume. Although they’re far cheaper than she would have ever bought in the past, she takes one each for the kids and another for Rick and smiles to herself—Christmas shopping in September—just like she used to. She’d loved those months before Christmas—choosing her gifts for Dan and her nephews and nieces. Sadness waves over her as she remembers them—not actual memories of them of course, but the photographs her sister had sent over. She stacks the boxes on the counter then continues to look around. In half an hour she’s filled five baskets with toiletries and gone through the room at the back where the medicines are kept and picked through the stock there until she’s satisfied that she has enough of the medicines that they may need. Taking bags from under the counter, she fills them with her haul then makes her way back to the car, each arm loaded down with the weight of the bags. She smiles at the familiar feeling of warmth that spreads through her. Before, on her trips down Bond Street and to Selfridge’s in London, she’d get a real buzz from spending money, but by the time she got back to the penthouse she’d feel oddly drained and empty. Now, the feeling she has is real. Finding essential items to help her family always gives her that buzz—whatever that buzz was—because she was providing, giving love to people who appreciated it, and she was doing what she’d promised; making their lives happier and safer.

  She opens the boot of the car, fills it with the bags then grabs the petrol can, tubing and a selection of spanners and chisels. If the petrol flaps won’t open she’ll jimmy them. She giggles at the thought then closes the boot with a soft touch, locks the car and looks about for a likely target.

  The petrol flap of the first car she comes to, a BMW with its doors locked and neatly parked against the curb, doesn’t budge, but with the second she’s in luck. The car is skewed at an angle, it’s front bumper rammed into a black Volkswagen. As she approaches, the green of the windows can’t hide the figure slumped over the wheel and, before she has a chance to avert her gaze, she takes in the blackened mess that sits slumped over the driver
’s wheel. A head is turned to face her with eyes sunk deep into sockets, and blackened lips pulled back over teeth that sit oddly in its mouth—false teeth—a bridge perhaps. Its hair is dark, but the roots show through as white—a woman then, she assumes, an older woman. The green across the windscreen is thicker the closer to the body it is, and she wonders how long it will be before the mould covers the body too. She shudders and focuses instead on the petrol cap. Pushing it down at one side, she flips it open and smiles with relief; inside is a simple cap that she can easily twist off. She would have gotten the keys from the woman, but this way is so much easier.

  Opening the petrol tank, she slips in the hose and sucks from the other end. The flow of petrol is almost immediate and within seconds it slips out onto her lips. She spits the droplets to the floor and thrusts the hose into the waiting cannister. As she stands with the petrol can filling up, she’s startled by the sound of an engine and freezes as a car comes into view at the other end of the street. It moves quickly forward then turns without indication across the street and disappears into the petrol forecourt no more than a hundred feet in front. The fuel flows over Cassie’s hand and she squeezes the end of the tube with her fingers to stop the flow then screws the lid onto the can as she watches ahead to the petrol station. The car doesn’t reappear and its engine stops. She listens as car doors bang and metal clanks against metal. She imagines for a second that they’re going into the shop, but the noises don’t fit that description. Intrigued, she puts the can at her feet and crosses the road, checking ahead for places to hide in case the car makes a reappearance. A woman laughs in response to a male voice and then another clank of metal sounds. At the corner of the building Cassie crouches behind a car and watches as the man slams down the bonnet with what looks like a watering can in his hand. The woman pulls the nozzle of the petrol pump from the car’s tank. She watches in silent amazement as they get back in the car and simply drive away as though it’s the most normal thing in the world. It was—but now? Do they have power in the city then? Are things back to normal apart from the lack of people? Hope jumps in her heart for a moment, but another instinct takes over and she remains crouched, silent and watching.

  Minutes pass without movement or noise: no one comes, no vehicles pass, even the dogs are absent. If they can why can’t she? As Cassie’s thighs begin to burn with crouching, she makes a decision. If they can, she can. She stands tall, checks up and down the road, then sprints back to her car and manoeuvres it into place at the petrol pump. Still in quiet disbelief, she pulls the nozzle and slips it deep into the car’s tank and pulls the trigger. The display clicks to 000 then begins its count. Heart beating hard, Cassie watches as the numerals rise—she’ll fill up the tank.

  The display reads thirty-five pounds and seventeen pence as a white van pulls up onto the forecourt and comes to a screeching halt. Cassie stares at the driver as he glares at her. Even though his beard hides the form of his face, she watches his expression change from one of confusion to anger. Her hand trembles on the trigger and the petrol stops pumping.

  The engine of the van revs and it inches forward. The man leans out of the van’s window.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  She pulls the nozzle from the car and raises it into the air, her other hand held up in submission. “I ran out of petrol.”

  “Who sent you?”

  “Nobody.”

  “You can’t take that petrol without permission.”

  “But I ran out! And I saw another car pull up and just fill up. I thought it was OK.”

  “It’s not,” he growls. “Who sent you?” he repeats.

  “No one,” she replies.

  “Well, where you from?” he scowls and revs the engine again.

  There’s no way she’s going to give any details about their location to this man! “Over there,” she says nodding her head towards the back of the petrol forecourt—the opposite direction to the farm.

  “Over there?” he scowls. “From over the bridge?”

  “Yes,” she lies. “From over the bridge.”

  He slams his fist down onto the centre of his steering wheel and the horn blasts out, filling the silent air. Startled, a bird flaps from the forecourt roof and a dog howls. Cassie’s heart thuds hard in her chest as the man continues to glare at her. She hooks the nozzle back into its holder and fixes the cap back on tight with a trembling hand as the engine of the van continues to rev. It seems to match the man’s glare with its intensity and Cassie takes a deep breath to ease the hammering of her heart. He’s just trying to intimidate her—obviously not happy she’s taken some of the petrol—perhaps he thinks it’s all his. That’s one thing she can’t stand about what’s happened to the world—so many people are only interested in themselves and what they can hoard and keep hidden. Was it only the psychos who survived? Psychopaths—isn’t that what people who are only interested in themselves are called? Or is it sociopaths? Either way, the world still seems full of them—perhaps the plague changed people’s brains somehow?

  As the van rolls back a little, she slides into the driving seat and slams the car door shut then starts the engine. Thankful and relieved when it bursts into life, the CD player switches on, and the doors lock automatically as she reverses in an arc to pull away from the pump. Given the van’s position she can’t just pull forward and leave. As she pulls back then moves forward to manoeuvre into position, Simon and Garfunkel begin to sing, and another van appears and pulls onto the forecourt. It screeches to a halt and a man jumps out, crowbar in hand. Startled, Cassie rolls the car forward but not quickly enough. The crowbar smashes down onto the boot of her car with a thud. Anger sweeps over her, but she takes a breath of calm and pushes her foot down on the accelerator swerving the car round to face the man and the road. She sits and waits. Her hand grasps the gear shift. He stands, his feet spread wide, the crowbar held high. He shouts, but his voice is muffled by the music coming from the CD player. The lyrics of the Sounds of Silence fill the car as he takes a step forward. Cassie almost laughs when he sneers and knocks the crow bar against his palm. What does he think he’s doing?

  He takes another step forward. The white van rolls back a little further. Cassie revs the engine and reverses the car to the back wall of the forecourt. He smirks and takes another step forward. ‘Stay calm, Cassie’.

  “I am, Milo. Yes, I am.” She slots the gearstick into first.

  Garfunkel sings of songs and cancer growing.

  The man takes a look back at the white van driver and they both nod. He turns back to Cassie and launches himself forward. Cassie eases her foot off the clutch and presses the accelerator down—a perfect harmony of easing and pushing. The car shoots forward and the man barely has time to register her advance before she clips his leg and he somersaults through the air. Garfunkel sings about people talking without speaking as the man thuds down onto the car and rolls over the bonnet.

  The white van moves forward.

  Cassie reverses.

  ‘Keep your nerve. Choose your moment carefully.’

  Crowbar man lies in a heap next to a stack of red Calor gas bottles. As Cassie reaches the back wall again, one of the tall cylinders topples over and rolls towards the petrol pumps narrowly missing the man’s legs.

  White van man looks from his comrade to her and scowls. Simon sings about silent raindrops and Milo whispers about tactics and confidence.

  Cassie slips the gears into first and pulls on the handbrake, clutch to the floor, foot poised over the accelerator.

  The white van hurtles towards her and she slams down the handbrake and lets the car rip. At the last second, she swerves in an arc and the van passes her in a rush. She hears the screeching of its brakes, and the thud of its crash, above the music. Looking across, the van is reversing and already pulling back to point towards her. If she doesn’t deal with him now - she knows he won’t let up - he could even follow her back to the farm and that’s not a risk she’s willing to take.


  Car parked at an angle to the pumps, the man still unconscious against the wall, Cassie reverses, a fraction slower than is necessary, and knocks against the five-foot metal cylinder lying next to the last pump. She sits for a moment as the white van reverses. Within a second, it’s coming at her again.

  ‘Wait.’

  He’s passing the corner of the shop.

  ‘Now!’

  She pushes down on the accelerator and speeds forward turning the wheel a sharp right just before she’s about to hit the kerb outside the shop. She cringes as she waits for the van to smash against her bumper - thud! - and arcs out to the entrance, hurtling onto the road. Behind her the white van crashes over the petrol pumps. Debris flies through the air and the van smashes into the brick column holding up the forecourt roof and a fire bursts to life beneath its engine.

  Cassie stops the car and takes a quick look back at the man slumped over the wheel and the flames already licking at the tyres of the van. Thoughts of getting out to help him are pushed away as another car pulls out from the junction just ahead. She turns back to the road, puts her foot down, and powers the car to speed away from the smoking wreckage.

  From the rear-view mirror, she watches the car stop beside the van. Let them help him. She’s got more important people to help survive. Taking no chances, she turns off the road, following the signs towards the bridge. She’ll travel this route until she’s sure she’s not being followed then make her way back to the farm. After a few minutes, she breathes deeply, takes the slip-road that will take her back north, rolls her shoulders to release the tension and sits back in her seat. A smile slips across her face as another track begins to play and she reaches to turn up the volume then bops to the rhythm of Garfunkel singing Cecilia.

  Boom!

  The vibration of the blast rocks Cassie, reaching her senses above the music. Looking back, a thick plume of dense, black smoke is rising into the air.