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

by Rebecca Fernfield

  “Not long,” Deacon replies and lurches out onto the landing then staggers down the stairs.

  The baby coughs as Finn takes it in her arms. She sits at the side of bed with the sun’s light warming her and waits for him to pass.

  The door bangs behind Deacon as he slams it closed before striding across the yard to the gate. Pain wracks his body as images of the baby, then Kit, then Jules flood his mind. He wants to drop to his knees, curl into a ball and die, but the anger inside is boiling to a rage and pushes him on. Dan Morgan … Dan Morgan. Dan … Morgan. He squeezes the keys in his hand, enjoying the physical pain of the hard metal sticking into his flesh and throws the gates open before sitting astride his motorbike. It starts at the first turn, but he lets it sit to warm the engine. Dan Morgan. I’ll get you! He pulls back the throttle and the engine roars, the vibration through the exhaust pipes heavy in his chest. He revs the engine again, releases the clutch and guides the bike out of the gates and onto the road. The soft warmth of the early autumn sun soon chills him as he gains speed. He welcomes the discomfort—it smothers the pain.

  The sun is setting as he reaches the fifth village without sighting of Dan. His back aches and there’s the beginning of cramp in his leg. Pulling to the side of the road, he dismounts and pulls off his helmet. The coolness in the air is refreshing. He looks round, sees no one, then sits on the wall of the house he’s stopped at. Lowering his head, he closes his eyes and lets the memories and the pain wash over him.

  “Dan!” he shouts to the air. “Dan … Morgan!”

  The sounds reverberate in the silence.

  Lina walks with the tray up the stairs, careful not to jolt and spill the tea that steams in the mugs. She’s put extra sugar – some of the last – in Finn’s cup. As she steps into the room Finn sits at the edge of the bed holding the baby. It had died hours earlier – his passing was quick and for that she’s thankful – but Finn won’t let go, won’t move from the bed or let her take him from her.

  “Sweet Jesus!” she exclaims as she steps up to the bed.

  Blood soaks the bedclothes in an untidy circle around Finn.

  “Finn!” she says as she walks round the bed to face her friend.

  The girl sits staring out of the window, her face pale, her eyes without emotion.

  “Finn, you’re bleeding!”

  No response.

  “Finn!” she calls and pushes gently at her shoulder.

  A flicker in her eyes and then Finn looks up.

  “You’re bleeding, Finn. Let me help you, please!”

  She nods her head.

  “Let me have him,” she says gently. Finn holds the baby closer. Lina crouches down in front of her, puts her hands around the tiny form. “He’s gone, Finn. Let me take him. I’ll look after him, I promise. You need to lie down.”

  Blood drips to the carpet as Finn releases the baby.

  “His name is Saul,” she says.

  “That’s a beautiful name, Finn,” Lina says as she takes the child. Wetness covers her hands as she holds Saul in her arms and she realizes that the blanket that swaddles him is soaked in Finn’s blood too. How much has she lost? Without hesitation she takes the baby to her room, lays him in the centre of her bed and returns to Finn. She hasn’t moved.

  “Finn, get into bed and have some of this tea,” she urges holding out her hand to help Finn stand then get into bed. She obeys and drinks from the cup Lina holds. The bed clothes are wet with blood. Perhaps if she lays down the bleeding will stop? Perhaps it looks worse than it is? She needs to know. Hurrying to the bathroom, she takes clean towels from the stack on the shelf and returns to Finn then places them beneath her and sits at the bedside, helping her to drink the tea. They sit in silence and Finn closes her eyes and sinks back down into the pillows, obviously exhausted. After five minutes, Lina checks the freshly-laid towels. They’re soaked with blood. Haemorrhage! She’s bleeding to death. Where the hell is Deacon?

  Chapter 20

  The bike’s headlights illuminate the strips of white paint that line the road as Deacon takes the first exit at the small roundabout. Darkness has descended and only the stars and the headlights give any light. Just one mile left until he’s back home. He takes the bend slowly, accelerating around the corner and frowns. Ahead, an orange light glows. Fire! Something in the town is on fire. He pulls the throttle back and powers the bike forward, searching the horizon to discern where in the town the fire is lit. As the hill climbs, he loses sight of the town, but it looks as though the fire is on the far side and not the pub. Not home. He relaxes a little, but keeps the throttle pulled back.

  The town’s centre is empty as he rides through, the pub sits dark on the corner, no sign of any problems, but ahead the orange glow shines bright. He passes home, checking through the windows to try and see inside. He’ll get back to Finn soon, but first he has to see what’s going on.

  With home behind him, he rides through to the end of town. He slows and turns off his headlights. Ahead a car is alight and a figure, in silhouette, moves across the road. A car appears, turns at the circle, then moves back up the road and out of sight. It’s followed by another and then a van.

  Deacon rolls forward, pulls his bike to the side of the road, parks it in the front yard of one of the empty houses along the street, then makes his way to the back garden. The grassed area at the back rises steeply giving him a good view down to the petrol station. The area is flooded with light from the burning cars and the headlights of the cars and vans that point directly at the bank of tyres.

  Men, and at least two women, armed and dressed in leathers with what look like makeshift protective breastplates, stand behind the barricade. Some have bike helmets on although there’s no sign of any motorbikes. Armed and wearing protective clothing—they’re here for a fight! On the other side, a row of cars and vans sit with their headlight shining bright. Deacon grunts. He thinks back to the myriad times he’s seen the flatbed truck and the van drive to and from the petrol station. Seems if you hoard stuff someone else is always going to try and take it from you. He doesn’t recognise the people or the vehicles sitting in the road, but is that Sergei’s van turning? The van stops and then a door of another opens then slams as a man gets out and walks across to greet the driver. Yes, it is Sergei. Deacon watches as the blond giant steps out of the van and talks to the stranger. Another door slams and Saskia appears, her bright blonde hair a halo in the light. She teeters towards the stranger, stands petite next to him, hooks her arm through his, and laughs. What is she up to? They turn to the petrol station as they talk and Sergei seems to give instructions, or perhaps advice, as he points at the blockade of tyres.

  The hoard of armed men and women gather as a cluster in front of the station and Sergei joins them whilst Saskia returns to the van. Perched at the end of the garden, the concrete of the station forecourt must sit twenty feet below. Deacon grabs the thick wire fence and steps over, tucking his feet through the bottom of the fence where the concrete blocks of the retaining wall meet the grass of the garden. Below him a ledge of bricks sticks out. He drops down to the ledge then jumps to the petrol forecourt.

  The group of defenders at the barricade turn to him in unison and raise their weapons. They include a garden fork, an axe, and what looks like a crowbar; a pathetic armoury in comparison to the hoard on the other side. Deacon raises his hands, palms flat, and walks forward whilst keeping a careful eye on each of them, alert for movement in his peripheral vision or sound from behind.

  “I’m here to help,” he calls though not too loud.

  A tall man, one who seems to be the leader, nods to the others and steps towards Deacon. His face is hard, his eyes narrowed in question.

  “To help us?”

  “Yeah. I saw the fire. Looks like you’ve got real trouble on your hands. That’s Saskia out there.”

  “Saskia?”

  “Yep. She’s certifiable—criminally insane—she should be locked up.”

  “I’ve no idea
who Saskia is. It’s Lennox though—out there. He’s come for Trina.”

  “Trina?”

  A petite brunette steps out from behind the tall man.

  “Me,” she answers.

  “I’m confused. Who the hell is Lennox and what’s he doing with the local psycho?”

  “Lennox is my ex. We came over here to get away from him.”

  “Looks like he found you then!”

  “Yeah,” she replies with a frown and looks back towards the barricade.

  “Are you sure that’s what they’ve come for? He looks pretty pally with Saskia. I thought they were after the petrol,” Deacon says nodding towards the pumps.

  “I …” she falters. “Jackson, perhaps it’s not me he’s come for. Perhaps it is the petrol?”

  “Perhaps both,” Deacon replies.

  “Well, whichever, he’s not having neither.”

  An engine revs followed by shouting and one of the vans used as part of the protective wall rocks.

  “What the!” Jackson shouts spinning on his heels.

  “They’ve got a rope round the van!” a man shouts as the van is dislodged from its position, its front end now pointing into the road.

  “Looks like they’re demolishing your wall, Jackson,” Deacon says as he watches the van rock again. Figures appear and one smashes at the driver’s window, opens the door and leans in. The van begins to roll and a gap appears in the defence.

  “Jackson! What’re we going to do.”

  “Looks like we’re going to have to fight,” he replies and reaches down for the thick chain coiled next to the pump.

  The lights that have been shining down on the forecourt turn off and the petrol station is plunged into darkness but for the orange glow of the burning cars further down the street and the lights from the cars shining through the gap in the wall.

  “Turn the lights back on!” Jackson shouts across to the shop.

  Light returns.

  “We need to see what we’re doing – can’t fight in the dark.”

  “I don’t have a weapon,” Deacon says looking around the forecourt. Apart from a couple of old broom handles there’s nothing he can use. He’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way. “Got any bottles?”

  “Huh?”

  “Bottles. We’ve got the advantage here—we’ve got fuel. If we can get something to put it in-”

  “Petrol bombs?”

  “Yes.”

  “This way.”

  Deacon follows Jackson to the side of the petrol station’s shop. A large bin stands in the corner next to the brick wall that separates the forecourt from the neighbouring house.

  “Check in there,” Jackson suggests walking to the bin and lifting the lid.

  Deacon peers in. “This is plastics,” he says looking down at the empty milk cartons.

  “Won’t they do?” Trina asks.

  “No, it’s got to be glass or metal.”

  “This one then,” she says bending down and pulling a sturdy blue box from beside the grey bin. It contains a couple of jars and three glass milk bottles. They’re grimy and greened with years of being outside, but intact.

  “We can make five at least,” Deacon says bending to pick up the box.

  A shout goes up and he turns to see a group of men standing at the space where the van had been.

  “Hurry!” Trina shouts grasping the crowbar in her hands tight to her chest.

  “Get me some rags or paper,” Deacon instructs as he runs to the petrol pump.

  He takes the nozzle from its cradle and holds it to the mouth of the first milk bottle. The nozzle is too large to fit inside and when he pulls the trigger petrol sprays out and down the side. Within seconds it is full and he puts it to one side and begins to fill the next. Trina returns with a pile of magazines.

  “Screw some pages up and stuff them into the tops of the bottle,” he instructs. “Make sure the paper touches the petrol inside.”

  She doesn’t hesitate and starts to rip at the magazines, scrunches the paper into a ball and stuffs it with her thumb down into the bottle.

  “You’re covered in petrol,” she says with concern.

  “Let me light them,” Jackson demands and bends to pick up the first bomb.

  The tyres that form the final part of the barricade have been thrown to the side and a group of men now stand on the forecourt. All are armed. Deacon takes a moment to check each man. No guns—not that he can see anyway.

  “I hope you’ve got a good throwing arm,” Deacon says as Jackson takes the lighter offered by Trina.

  “Sure do. I was county champion in javelin at school.”

  “Let’s see what you’ve got then,” Deacon replies. “I think now’s a good time to let them discover what they’re in for,” he says as the group of men step forward.

  “Stand back,” Jackson warns as he lights the paper.

  As it bursts into flame, he pulls his arm back and launches it across to the waiting men. It arcs and Deacon watches its trajectory as it moves over their heads and smashes down onto the road behind. They jump and scatter, but Jackson is already throwing the second bomb. This time it lands just in front of their position. A man screams and runs across to the wall, his jacket on fire. He lands on the ground, rolling until the flames go out.

  “Want some more?” Jackson shouts as the men squeeze through the gaps in the barricade, jumping over car bonnets. As the final man jumps, Jackson throws another bomb. It hits the car’s bonnet. He throws another, this time at the cars further along the row. The barricade is alight along its length as Jackson throws the final petrol bombs into the road.

  Trapped behind the burning wall of flames one of the men, his jacket still smouldering, stands unsure where to turn.

  “Get him!” Deacon shouts as the man looks for a gap between the flames. He can be a bargaining chip. “Trina. Get some rope. Something to tie him up with,” he instructs as three of Jackson’s men bear down on the man. As the fire burns, Deacon ties the man’s hands behind his back. “Sit down and don’t move,” he says to the defiance shining out of the man’s eyes. “Check the perimeter,” he tells the men gathered around. “We need to make sure they’re not coming in over the other walls. Now,” he says turning to the man on the ground. “Tell us what you’re doing here.”

  The man doesn’t move, just stares with a dark scowl into Deacon’s eyes.

  “Did Lennox come for me, Baxter?” Trina shouts down at him.

  She knows him?

  “Huh?”

  “Did he?” she persists.

  “No!” he shouts back. “Why would he come back for you, you silly cow? Your ego’s got the better of you, Trina. Why would he want Jackson’s sloppy seconds,” he says with derision.

  Trina looks taken aback for a second, almost disappointed.

  “What do you want then?” Jackson asks as he steps next to Trina.

  Baxter remains silent. Jackson kicks at the man’s thigh.

  “Geroff!” he winces.

  “You’ll get another if you don’t answer me when I ask you a question.”

  “Shut up, Jackson!”

  The boot slams again, this time catching the man’s buttock. He falls to the side, scraping his tied hands against the concrete floor.

  “Alright!” he growls. “Give it a rest!”

  “Well?”

  “The fuel—what else?”

  “The fuel?” Deacon questions. “And how’d you know there was any here?”

  “That blonde bit—the one with the leather jacket and heels. She’s the one who told Lennox.”

  “Saskia,” Deacon growls.

  “We met up with her a few weeks ago.”

  “Where?”

  “Outside the city. We’ve got a farm up there—the van broke down and they stopped to help. The bloke—the big Russian one-”

  ‘Sergei. He’s not Russian.”

  “Well, no, but his name is. Anyway, he fixed the car. The blonde bit—she took a shine to our
Lennox.”

  “Huh!” Trina huffs.

  “Yeah, that’s right, Trina—and Lennox fancied a bit of it back!”

  “Shut up, Baxter!”

  “You want to listen or not?”

  “Yes, tell us the rest.”

  “Well, seems Lennox and the blonde have the hots for each other and since we’ve got the farm and she’s got people to work it, it’s a match made in heaven.”

  “People?”

  “So, she knows we need petrol and since our depot got blown up-”

  “That explains the explosions and the fire in the city the other week.”

  “Yeah, the fire. We lost our fuel stores. Anyway, she told us about this place—said it had plenty in the tanks…”

  “And you thought you’d come and help yourself?”

  “Something like that.”

  Jackson looks at Deacon with a deep frown. “Something will have to be done to keep this lot out—and Saskia needs reigning in.”

  Deacon nods in return.

  “You gonna let me go now?”

  “Hell no!”

  Shouting from the other side of the barricade fills the air as Deacon stares down at Baxter.

  “Stand up!” Jackson commands as silhouettes appear through the flames and smoke of the dying fires.

  Jackson takes Baxter’s arm as he stands. “We’d best show them we mean business,” he says as he squeezes the muscles beneath his fingers and pulls at the man to walk with him. Lennox needs teaching a lesson—needs to know not to mess with him. “Jake! Fetch me the rope.”

  Trina turns to him, her eyes wide and questioning.

  “Jackson?”

  “Lennox needs to know he can’t mess with us, Trina.”

  “Yes, but-”

  “No buts. He needs to learn that if he attacks me there will be consequences—seriously bad consequences.”

  “But, Baxter-”

  “What? He came here to steal from us. Didn’t he? You know the rule about thieves, Trina. I can’t be seen to be soft.”