The Devils Harvest: The End of All Flesh. (28 page)

The inevitable groups of morbid people had gathered from out of the service station, to watch the free show. People gathered together into huddled groups. Some pointing at the engulfed figure screaming from the window, as he tipped over the edge and fell the three floors to the concrete beneath, with a sickening thud and the cracking of bones.

I had to get away from the commotion. I was shaking worse now than from the train crash. The train crash was fast, over in moments. I had been flung about like a ragdoll. I had been disorientated and confused, finding myself lying on my back in the wet grass. It was nothing compared to having to crawl away from a engulfing infernal, that seemed to hunt victims, and seeing burning bodies and others dying in painful convulsions.

The rain was getting heavier. At first it was cool and refreshing, but now it was chilling me to the bone.

People ignored the biting cold winds and thrashing rain as they continued to gather. Now pouring out of the main service station like termites from a nest.

The wind was whipping the flames into curling thongs that reached all the way to the roof, reaching and spreading the destruction. Burning embers swirling and dancing in the dark sky creating a ballet all of there own.

More windows could be heard shattering. Loud popping sounds echoed out of the building. Screaming, hissing smoke issued from countless windows and cracked walls.

I could hear sirens ringing through the wind, and through the sound of the burning building. The emergency services had been stretched to there limit over the last few days.

I knew the blue Vauxhall would still be where I had left it, but decided to leave it; they would already be looking for it.

I remembered seeing a small signpost as I drove along the long twisting lane leading to the entrance of the service station; it stated a small settlement was at the end of the road. The small village stood no more than quarter of a mile down the back lanes. So that’s where I headed. Head down against the onslaught of wind and driving rain. I walked along the narrow hedge covered lanes.

After getting away from the main car park and entrance, with all the police cars, ambulances and fire engines flying past, no other cars seemed to be around. No other living souls apart from behind at the service station, where even now the battle to control the fire was underway.

I had no idea what the time was? I regretted dropping my watch down the drain. It was a present from my second wife. A Ulysse Nardin, two thousand pound watch kind of stands out. Why didn’t I just put it in my pocket? I was under a lot of stress at the time – and still am. It was a diver’s watch anyway – stainless steel, so it would be okay until I went to retrieve it, if I ever got the chance.

I missed using my iPhone. It could’ve told me the time, including my exact location down to a couple of feet anywhere on the planet. But I couldn’t risk turning it on, they would be able to track my SIM card.

I had pondered going into a 02 phone shop and picking up a Pay & Go SIM card and swapping it with mine. Just putting a tenner on would give me a certain amount of text, but more importantly 500MB’s of web browsing. With that I could use anyone of the numerous Apps my phone held. A Map App that would not only pinpoint me, but tell me how to get to certain locations. An App called AroundMe, which tells you the location of anything from banks and ATM machines, to gas stations, pharmacies, hospital and hotels. When I’m in an unfamiliar city I always find what I need with this App. I could’ve also used the Sky News App, which would keep me up-to-date with everything that was happening at my home.

But I hadn’t seen a 02 shop yet, and I doubted very much that the small village I was headed towards would have one.

The small isolated village I now stumbled into was dark and deserted. Cats and dogs were the only wandering inhabitants of the narrow shadowy streets. Their fur was plastered to their backs, making them look thin and unnatural, the granny light reflecting off their large round eyes, like many wandering water-demons. Very few lights glowed from the drawn curtains. A handful of street lights spilled weak light onto the rain soaked streets. With the ever-present sound of the rain drumming against the concrete pavement and slate roofs.

I wandered up the main street, a mere collection of old narrow dull houses and a scattering of small shops. Large ugly light green wheelie-bins sat perched all the way along the streets, with big black bin bags stacked up around them. Some had been torn into from hungry cats or foxes. An occasional head with glowing green or orange eyes wound peer from beside ripped bags. Tomorrow was possibly garbage day.

Every now and then a shattering sound would cause me to turn quickly, sounding like someone throwing pottery from a window down onto the street.

The rain was now heavy and pouring steadily. I loved the rain. Even more so if I was inside watching the rain spatter against the windows, or echoing off the conservatory roof. It wasn’t much fun walking along in it. I needed to get out of my wet clothes and into somewhere warm. I couldn’t get wetter even if I jumped in a river.

I continued along the old main street. Few windows splashed light out onto the pavement, illuminating the large bins and rounded black bags, looking like hunched figures crouching in the rain, all lining the street waiting for me to pass.

Then for some reason that I can’t explain, I turned down a small back street. No street lights illuminate the dark and ominous side lanes. The small lane was so narrow it wouldn’t even fit a car down it. Front doors were directly facing each other. The houses themselves seemed like they were huddled together to protect themselves from the bitter wind and battering rain. Several roof tiles lay shattered on the cobblestone street, having been torn from their resting place and smashed like fragile glass
. So that was the crashing sounds I had been hearing.

Then as I turned another corner, down an impossibly narrow lane, I saw a door wide open, with wind and rain lashing through. I headed towards it, head down against the pounding relentless English weather.

I stood on an old warn doormat, looking into the dwelling. No lights issued from the small cramped house. Maybe the door had blown open from the battering wind? I knew differently when an eerie, wailing voice rose out of the very wind and darkness itself.

“E… n… t… e… r...” it said, in a long drawn out voice, sounding like a person trying to talk while suffering from a bad asthma attack.

I stepped into the cold house and was engulfed in darkness. The door slammed shut behind me.

Little Remains

T
he inside of the house was even darker and colder than outside, if that was possible. The cold seemed to creep into the very marrow of my bones, making me shiver violently, seemingly making the rain freeze on my skin.

I couldn’t hear any other whispering voices. Just emptiness and abandonment, that wrapped around me like a chilling blanket.

I was surprised the onset of hypothermia wasn’t kicking in. I was soaked and freezing – the perfect recipe to get extremely ill. Added to the body damage from the train crash and hotel fire, I should have been a complete mess. But apart from being cold and feeling slightly woozy, and having a little chest pain and ringing ears, I was much better than I had any right to be.

I hope my luck – in the health department – lasted.

Amen.

I jumped as the fire roared to life in the hearth, engulfing the logs stacked inside. The orange and red flames licked around inside the old fireplace, consuming most of the wood in one violent burst. It then quietened down, the flames becoming more subdued, gently crackling away, turning to a yellowy-orange. Images of the hotel fire flashed in my mind, burned bodies and screaming children. I quickly banished them.

I then knew it was his voice that called me into the house. His power lighting the fire, as he had done in my home, keeping the fire burning for days.

The room was small and cramped. Only one old chunky easy chair near the fire, made from brown striped cloth, with a small footstall in the same material. On another wall was an old bookcase, filled with books picked up from charity shops and flea markets. And a vast stack of old magazines on the big bottom shelf; all tatty and well read. Next to the chair was a non-tilt overbed table, the same as you see in hospitals. Next to the table were more magazines and papers. There was a television opposite the chair, an old one, which was built into a wooden cabinet and standing on wobbly looking legs. The main feature of the room though was the large ornate green patterned tiled fireplace, with a John Constable,
The Hay Wain
print hanging over it. I knew the painting well, my grandma use to have the same over her London fireplace. I spent hours dreaming I lived in that cottage by the water.

To one side another doorway led into what could be a kitchen. A spiral staircase twisted away from sight in one corner, leading to the first floor. The house was old and had been well used.

I decided the house was obviously empty, after no one came down to see why the front door had banged loudly, or at the noise I was now making, as I started to undress and lay my clothes over a metalwork fire grill. Steam instantly started to rise from my soaked tracksuit and colourful underwear that looked comical spread out to dry, with Marvin the Martian’s angry face staring at the ceiling. My clothes stunk of smoke.

One of the light bulbs in the three-bulb centerpiece above me popped and went out. I continued to undress, pulling off my wet socks. I then pulled an old blanket from the back of the chair. I shook it, sending a storm of dust motes everywhere. After my coughing fit I snuggled up into the seat and wrapped the blanket tightly around myself. Even though it was dusty I welcomed its dryness and warmth.

The blanket smelt like Marks & Spenser, an expensive clothes and food store. When you walked in the store it stunk; a smell you associate with old people, a musty, sweaty smell. Every M&S I had ever been in smelt the same, as if they sprayed it around the store at night, like some sort of pheromone to attract old people.

I sat curled up, staring into the hypnotic flames of the fire. The images of the hotel fire started to fill my mind again. My head nodded forward from lack of rest. Before I knew what hit me I was fast asleep.

The dull light from the pulled curtains woke me. Looking at the old mahogany clock on the mantelpiece, I realized it was past eight o’clock in the morning, if the clock was working?

I looked again at the window, with dull light spilling in. What with the heavy rain clouds above and how narrow the lane was, I realized this small dwelling probably never got direct sunlight into its front room.

I went to uncurl. My muscles screamed at me, having been tucked up in an unnatural position all throughout the night. I felt like I had run the London Marathon.

The fire burned steadily in the grate and I knew I wouldn’t need to put anything on it; it would burn for as long as I decided to stay here. And knowing this place was obviously safe, because he had guided me here; I decided to stay the day and another night. Recover and put my mind in order.

Also, I would see if the old television, which was resting on the wobbly legs, actually worked. I would catch up with the latest news.

I found that after being sat in front of the open fire all night my clothes were like dry cardboard. I climbed into them. Hot and comforting, but slightly musty smelling. Or was that the house? Old and unused it seemed to have a familiar smell that I couldn’t quite place. Not the M&S smell, but something ominous.

I wandered into the small kitchen, which only filled one wall. A small two burner stove with a cooker beneath, a box-fridge and a collection of mismatched cupboards. The whole kitchen was covered with a film of greasy yellow dust. The small dirty window was full of dead flies and dried larvae cases, and a patchwork of dusty cobwebs.

I started opening a few cupboards. I found a handful of Tesco baked beans tins, the value twenty-nine pence variety, with the blue and white stripes down the side. A couple tins of value spaghetti and other cheap cupboard fillers. Whoever had lived here was on a budget. I realized I wasn’t really hungry, just going through the motions. I ignored the tins and looked for something to drink instead.

The fridge was still running, but everything inside it had taken on a life of its own. Some sort of cheese – in its former life – now filled almost the entire top shelf in a green-grey type of spider’s web, reaching out from the dried mummified remains of the original lump. Milk cartons were bloated from chemical decomposition; they looked like they could explode under the pressure at any moment. Apart from the lower glass draw being full of an organic looking brown soup – that was possibly once a collection of vegetables – nothing else was inside.

I ran the tap for a few minutes, waiting for the brown water to run clear. Water pipes banged loudly from somewhere in the house. First I washed the smudged lipstick off the cup, and then filled it. I returned to the small front room.

I slowly – to make sure it didn’t collapse – moved the cabinet with the old television on, closer, so I could sit in the seat and see what the news had to say. It was a Murphy TV, which had a 19 inch rounded screen. After getting use to a 50 inch flat plasma screen, I needed it closer just to see it.

After fiddling with the aerial for a couple of minutes I eventually achieved a picture that was a fuzzy haze. The old colour television had a large round knob on the front for changing channels. I hadn’t seen a television this old since I was a child, and was surprised it wasn’t black and white.

I now sat curled up in the chair, with the chipped cup resting in my hands, watching a tacky breakfast time TV show, waiting for the news to start.