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

by Rebecca Fernfield

As the van pulls onto the road that passes into the town, Sergei looks to the bridge. Movement catches his eye and he slows to a stop.

  “Why you stopping? We’re in the middle of the road!”

  “Look! On the bridge.”

  “Where.”

  “Near the middle. See?”

  “Is that a car?”

  “It is.”

  “But I thought the bridge was blocked.”

  “It was.”

  Sergei puts the van in reverse and backs up to the stretch of road that sits on the flyover. Any car coming this way won’t be able to see him through the mass of trees at the central reservation of the roundabout but he’ll see them as they pass under—unless they turn off the road and if that was the case they’d be going down into the town and he could follow them from here.

  He reaches forward and turns the CD player off and winds down the window. The car’s engine can be heard in the distance, growing louder with each moment that passes.

  “They should be here now,” Saskia hisses.

  “Shh!”

  “There—there they are,” she hisses again as a red car emerges from beneath the bridge and speeds away from them. Where they going?”

  “How the heck would I know?”

  “At least they didn’t come into the town—the last thing we need is more people.”

  “There’s not exactly a lot right now, Saskia.”

  “More than enough—given who’s there already and there’s no food no more,” she sniffs.

  “Well,” he says shifting the gear into first and releasing the handbrake, “whoever they are, they’re not going to bother us. It’s just someone travelling somewhere else—that’s all.”

  “Let’s get home. I’m starving, and Scarlet and Ben,” she says gesturing to the back of the cab where two of the children sit among the bags of scavenged tins and dried foods, “have got plenty of work to do when we get back.”

  “You work those kids too hard, Saskia,” he replies as they make their way down the main road into the town.

  “Rubbish. They need to work for their keep. If they don’t do it who will?”

  “Not you, that’s for sure.”

  “You’re bloody too right—not me.”

  As they pass the petrol station at the bottom of the hill Sergei slows to a stop. The entrance has been barricaded with cars and piled tyres. It looks deserted.

  “Shall we have a look?”

  “What? Just walk in?”

  “No! We can park round the back and get a look in from the gardens. Look there,” he points, “the gardens behind are much higher than the station. If we get up there we can see straight down and see who’s guarding it.”

  “Better still. You and Loz can come back later and check it out. How about that?”

  “Sure, OK,” he agrees and speeds up again. He’ll come back later and check it out. Perhaps that blonde, the one he’d seen here before, would be on duty. He’d liked the look of her. Perhaps, if he played his cards right, he’d even get his leg over. He had a way with the ladies and it had been a long, long time since he’d had the pleasure. A wide grin spreads across his face and he laughs at a memory from back in the day.

  “What you laughing at?”

  “Nothing,” he replies, but can’t help a chuckle.

  “What is it? You’d better not be taking the piss!”

  “You’re so flippin’ vain, Saskia! Has everything got to be about you?”

  A dull thud sounds from the back of the van. Saskia turns and thumps the metal divider with her fist. “Settle down in there!” she shouts. “Bloody kids!” she mutters.

  Sergei snorts again. “Mother earth you ain’t!”

  “Pah!”

  Chapter 14

  The soles of their boots scuff against the tarmac as the kids walk behind Loz. He peers into the distance and the long road ahead. It seems to stretch on forever from this angle.

  “How much further?”

  “It’s just up here, Leo” he replies. “Not far now.”

  “I’m hungry,” the girl complains.

  “And I need something to drink,” the other boy adds.

  “Once we get there, you can have a bit of water,” Loz placates without turning to look round at the children

  “That stuff in the cannister?”

  “Yep.”

  “But it tastes gross!”

  “Yep,” he sighs, “but it’s all we’ve got so be glad of it,” he says wiping at his forehead and pulling the empty rucksack up against his shoulder.

  He looks back at the straggle of children; the slight blonde girl, her hair worn in messy plaits, the two boys, both thin, both a similar height with over-long chestnut hair, differentiated only by the lack of freckles spattered across Leo’s cheeks. A wave of sadness - or is it guilt? - washes over him. One thing was for sure – there weren’t no fat kids no more. “Come on,” he says with irritation turning away from their gaunt and grubby faces, and back to the long road. “The turn off is just up here.”

  “Was that a dog?” Emma asks, a note of fear in her voice.

  “Could’ve been. Or a fox,” Josh replies.

  “It was a dog, I think,” Loz replies as he watches a tail disappear into the reeds growing at the side of the dyke. His fingers tighten around the hunting knife in his hand.

  “There was one in the garden this morning.”

  “A fox?”

  “No, a dog. It was at the bins again.”

  “Huh! Well it won’t have found much in there.”

  “It was sniffing at the empty tins.”

  “And the bones—bet it wanted the bones too.”

  “None of you have got any food in your bags have you?”

  “Yeah, right! As if!”

  “OK,” he says reassured, and peers again into the distance. “It’s just that they’ve got a good sense of smell—the dogs.”

  “If they come at me I’ll fight them! I’ll poke their eyes out with my stick and-”

  “Leo! That’s gross.”

  “Well, I will! If it tries to kill me, I’ll kill it.”

  “Hey, kids, it won’t do that. Probably a fox anyway,” Loz lies.

  Turning off the main road, they walk another hundred yards until they reach the entrance to the allotments. The hedges have been left to grow upward and outwards and a wooden archway is prettily covered with the final blooms of the dog roses that grow wild through the bushes.

  “How d’you know that they’re not here?”

  “Saskia told me.”

  “But isn’t it wrong? Taking what they’ve grown. I mean—we’ve got our own at the house.”

  “Yeah, and I’ve got the black fingernails to prove it!”

  “It’s not ready yet. We won’t get any food from what we’ve planted for months. And anyway, Saskia says she’s done a deal with Carl, and he said we can come and help ourselves.”

  “Oh, well that’s OK then.”

  “This way,” Loz says peering over the top of the wooden gate to the open space beyond.

  The allotment is a large oblong of rectangular beds, all neatly dug over and planted. Some of the beds lie empty, just scattered with lumps of brown grass, whilst others are lined with rows of green leafing plants. Loz’s mouth waters. He smiles wryly. His mother would never have believed it—that he’d be looking forward to a plate full of vegetables—he was a real pie and chips man, and there had been nothing green on his plate when they had a Sunday roast—just roasties, Yorkshires, meat and plenty of gravy. He makes a final check for movement then pushes at the gate. It doesn’t move. Looking down, a padlock sits fat and heavy barring their entrance.

  “Damn!” He looks again into the allotments, checking along the fences until he finds what he needs. “This way, kids,” he says then leads them around the perimeter to the far side where there’s a gap in the patched chicken wire-cum-slatted panelling fence. The nettles sting as they clamber through into the open space, and the children whine, but a
quick reminder that they’ll get nothing if they don’t shut up soon, quietens them. “Emma get your bag and take some of the tomatoes and green beans that are growing on those poles,” he instructs. “Leo come with me.” He steps to the bed in front of him where tall fronds stand in rows. The plants have spiky looking leaves and small white flowers. He has absolutely no idea what they are, but he slips his rucksack to the ground and unzips the bag then digs at the earth with his fingers, taking great handfuls of soil and raking it away until the first brown tuber appears. “Hah!” he says with triumph. “Potatoes!”

  “Potatoes!” Leo says with obvious excitement and drops to his knees and begins scraping at the soil.

  Loz chuckles and smiles at the boy’s enjoyment as he begins to tug at the plant and watches his amazement as the leaves and stalks pull away from the soil.

  “Wow! Look how many there are,” he shouts and shakes the soil away from the clusters of new-grown potatoes.

  “Pick ‘em off and stick them in your bag,” Loz instructs as he pulls at his own plant. The roots break with a snap and he falls on his backside onto the grass at the side of the bed. “Hah!” he laughs then pushes himself up, shakes the plant then picks off its fruit. With his bag half full, he turns his attention to the other beds. Within half an hour their bags contain enough potatoes, carrots, green beans, tomatoes and runner beans to last a good few weeks. Enough for a good meal tonight. Shame they didn’t have any meat to go with it though. He looks about the allotment—shame they didn’t keep chickens or geese here—they could’ve helped themselves to some eggs and even a bird. He’d catch one and break its neck no problem, then one of the kids could pluck it and Sergei could cook it—no point getting Saskia to do that she was completely useless in the kitchen, though he wasn’t so sure she wasn’t just putting it on—I mean no one could be that useless surely—even he, Loz, with almost zero cooking skills was better than Saskia. A bird flaps from the sycamore, part of the boundary between the allotment and the dump, and flies to another tree further towards the locked gate. Stupid bird! What was the point of that?

  “Loz!” Emma shouts and he swivels, alerted by the note of anxiety in her voice.

  She stands, blonde hair pulled back and straggling, her thin shoulders stiff beneath her over-large top and he follows her eyes to the gap they’d forced their way through. Staring back at them is a dog, a large and very hungry-looking dog. Emma takes a step back as the dog takes a step over the crushed chicken wire—its hackles raised. Loz tightens his grip on his … damn! His knife—it’s next to the bed of carrots!

  “Step back … slowly,” Loz calls.

  The dog raises its other front leg and steps it over the wire.

  “Come back to me,” Loz says with a firm voice as Emma whimpers. “He won’t hurt you if you stay still,” he continues, but his voice is without conviction. The dogs were a continual problem. “Just back up, Emma,” he repeats as the girl remains frozen.

  The dog, hackles raised, teeth bared, walks towards the girl. She whimpers again but still doesn’t move. Loz looks back over his shoulder to the bed of carrots and the blade of his knife glints in the sun—he can’t get it without leaving her. Leo shuffles behind him.

  “I’ll get it,” Leo offers and turns to reach for the knife.

  The dog growls. Emma screams. The dog launches itself into the air. Without a second thought Loz leaps forward, grabs Emma’s shoulder, pulls her round and pushes her away, standing with his back to the dog. It sinks its teeth deep into his arm. The weight of the animal jumping on him throws Loz to the ground. The dog, his teeth firmly around Loz’s bicep shakes its head and growls. Loz stares in horror at the wild eyes locked onto his and the screams as the jaws bite down into his flesh. The pain is immense. He raises his free arm and thumps down at the dog, catching its ear. It yelps and releases him then immediately gnashes its teeth and launches again at Loz. He screams as the dog’s fangs bear down on him, aiming at his throat, and throws his arm across his face. The dog bites down on his forearm and he shouts again in pain, a low and angry growl. Adrenaline pumps through him and he grabs at the dog’s fur, grasping its collar and twisting it as hard as he can. The dog is too strong though and snaps again at his arm, biting deep and hard before coming back at him again, this time catching his throat. This is it? This is how I’m going to die? Loz’s scream is a gurgle of horror as the dog clamps its teeth down hard into the soft flesh. Screams, high-pitched and awful, sound at the periphery of his awareness. Everything is the dog—its stench and the closeness of its huge head next to his, the suffocating fur and the pain of its teeth as they press down hard into the flesh of his neck. His breath is hard to catch as he pulls at the dog’s collar. A weight presses against his body and there’s pain there too—sharp and digging. He grunts, as the dog’s paw pushes down against his belly, each claw a dagger. Emma screams and then Leo’s face is above, a blurred and blotched shape against the black of the dog’s fur.

  The dog yelps.

  He takes a great gasp of air as the pressure on his neck releases.

  “Ugh,” he grunts as the dog’s weight crushes against his ribs.

  “Pull it off!” Emma shouts.

  The dog jerks and warmth spreads over Loz’s belly.

  “Grab the collar. I’ll get the legs.”

  The dog’s head thuds against the earth as Emma and Leo drag it from Loz’s chest. Pushing against the soil, Loz winces, then notices the great patch of red spreading over his shirt – his favourite – the Hawaiian one Saskia says suits him so well.

  “Oh, God!” Emma exclaims as she turns to him, her eyes wide with horror.

  “What is it?” Loz asks, his voice hoarse and painful.

  “It’s just … there’s so much blood.”

  His head pounds and his hands tremble.

  “Sit still, Loz. Let me see where you’re hurt.”

  He obeys her orders and sits. Truth be known, he’s not sure he can stand anyway—not for a few minutes at least. He stares at the dog as she pulls out a cloth from her bag and begins wiping at his face. Tentative at first, then a little firmer, and sighs.

  “What?” he asks and looks up into her face. Her young eyes stare back at him. “You’re OK. I thought he’d ripped your throat out or something with all the blood, but it’s just surface stuff. What about your arms—let’s look at them.”

  Loz sits forward as she pulls at the arms of his jacket and shrugs to help her get it off. Round marks are purpling where the dog bit down, but the skin isn’t broken. Emma sighs with relief again.

  “You’re lucky. Dog bites are nasty; they can get real infected. A dog bit our post lady—you know—before—and the hospital wouldn’t even give her stitches because they said dog bites are poisonous or something. She ended up on a drip overnight—they said the infection could have gone into her bones!”

  “Cheers for that! So I’ve only got the bites around my neck to worry about,” he laughs though his voice trembles.

  “Oh,” she says looking at his neck again. “Well, you don’t need stitches and there’s cream we can put on back at the house.”

  “Thank you, nurse,” he smiles.

  “The dog’s dead,” Leo says as he steps next to Loz. “I just watched it die.”

  Loz looks over to the still body of the dog, its black fur, dull and matted, now stained with blood where Leo had stabbed the knife deep into its chest.

  “You must’ve got it in the heart.”

  “Yeah, I reckon. It died real quick.”

  “Thank you!” Loz says with feeling.

  “S’alright,” Leo replies. “If you was Saskia I wouldn’t have bothered, but seen as it’s you …”

  “Now, now. Saskia’s harsh, that’s true, but-”

  “I bet you wouldn’t have saved her!”

  “I would!”

  “He loves her!”

  “I do not!”

  “Do!”

  “Stop it! Help me up. We’d best be getting back and sta
rt cooking the vegetables. You know what she’s like if the food’s not ready when she wants it—just a shame there’s no meat.”

  “Well, what about him?” Leo says nodding across towards the dog.

  “Him?” Loz asks in confusion.

  “Yeah, him,” Leo repeats. “They eat them in other countries.”

  Loz stares again at the still form of the dog.

  “I don’t see the difference. It’s not like they’re pets anymore.”

  “No, but …” He stalls, the warmth of the sun soft against his neck, and then pushes himself up from the ground and staggers over to the dog. He takes a breath. It’s true. It wanted to kill them—an unprovoked attack—so it was probably hunting—hunting them! “Dog for tea it is then!”

  “Hah!”

  “Gross!” Emma blurts. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “No. It’s like Leo says; they eat them in other countries and this dog was hunting—hunting us down so it could eat us. Looks like if we don’t eat them first then they’re going to eat us.”

  “You can carry it back then,” she says with disgust.

  “We will,” Leo says. “Loz,” he says with command. “We need to find some poles and some rope or string. We can tie it to the poles and carry it between us—like in the films where the cannibals cap-.

  “Like in Pirates of the Caribbean where they capture Johnny Depp and carry him on those bamboo poles?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Leo, you’re a genius,” he says taking another step towards the dog. He bends down without taking his eye off its face and reaches for his knife. It pulls out with a sickening scrape against bone, and blood oozes thick over the fur. Stabbing the knife into the turned earth of the beds, he cleans it then pushes it back into the band of his jeans and looks around the allotment, searching for a pole or branch to tie the dog to. The shed over by the sycamore looks like the best place to find what they need.

  Within ten minutes, the dog is hog tied and strapped firmly onto a branch Loz has broken from a tree. It sags a little in the middle, the green wood a little too flexible for purpose, but it does the job and, as the sun begins to set for the day, they reach the house.