The Devils Harvest: The End of All Flesh. (33 page)

I had read enough. I left the paper where it was. Then as if the coat – that had been left on the seat – was mine, I lifted it and put it on. No one cared what I was doing; everyone ignored me.

Suddenly I felt a strong hand clamp over my arm. I turned and looked into the milky eyes of a middle-aged man. My fight or flight was kicking in. Or the technical term:
fright, fight or flight response
. Luckily my subconscious body opted to freeze, and didn’t scream like a ten year old girl and run or punch him in the face.

What did he want? Did he recognize me? Or was I now wearing his coat, and he was about to cause a scene?

“Excuse me,” he said in a strong accent I didn’t recognize. “Have you finished with the paper?”

I almost wept with joy. He must have felt my body relax under his iron grip, as the adrenaline washed away.

“Sure, all yours, mate,” I simply said, my voice a little shaky.

With a warm thick Parker jacket now snuggled around me I headed for the exit, before the owner realized he had left his belongings behind. Or the man, I had left the paper with, realized I was the person looking back at him from the second page.

The coat was perfect. Looking like an Eskimo’s jacket with the zip that went all the way up over the chin, causing a small tunnel that you gaze out from, protecting the face and warming the whole body. No one would see my face now, unless they stood directly in front of me and looked at me head on. I would keep my head down.

Backpack pulled tight, and hood all the way up, I headed across the car park. Then I saw it – a bus. People milling around even in the rain. Some running back from the service station, others stood hunched over in the drizzle, having one last cigarette before the bus pulled away, their craving for nicotine more powerful that their need to stay warm and dry.

I ran towards the bus, as if it was my destination all along. Head down I entered, noticing it was half empty and belongings on only a few scattered seats. I headed to the back of the bus and dropped down into an empty seat, leaning my head against the window, feigning sleep, bag now on my lap.

About ten minutes later all the occupants had returned. No one noticed one extra person. No one cared. The good old English. No head count, no raising of hands to check all were present, the bus simply pulled away, leaving the car park, the service station and the charred remains of the hotel far behind, heading along the rain soaked motorway.

To where?
I had no idea. But I would never have guessed its final destination.

Expected

T
he noise of the passengers stuck inside a confined space, with nowhere to go, crammed into the same seat, was complete bedlam. Added to the annoying tinny sound of loud music played over headphones, it was driving me crazy. People chatting relentlessly about menial things. Children tired and bored, wanting to run wild, were moaning, some crying. Parents voices raised in anger, telling off the children for the hundredth time. This, I reminded myself, was the reason I never travelled on coaches.

There was an annoying smell too. It wasn’t just one smell it was a combination or many factors; the stale breath from the smokers, cheap aftershave and perfume, damp clothing and sweaty socks, and all made worse by the fact there wasn’t any windows to open, just a warm trickle from a small nozzle positioned above each seat – completely inadequate.

The small televisions positioned every ten or so seats, was playing the 2003 movie, The Hunted, with Tommy Lee Jones, Benicio Del Toro and Connie Nielsen, a film few were watching. The volume was far too loud, but not loud enough to cover over all the other sounds. Every time the bus hit a bump or when the driver revved the engine when about to overtake, the television would turn to static, taking maybe five seconds to return to normal, lines running upwards distorting the sound and picture.

The irony of the films name wasn’t lost on me.

There was a continuous line waiting to use the toilet, even though we had just left the service station. The line mainly comprised of young children, simply wanting to get away from their nagging parents.

I continued to keep my hood up, but undoing the zip a little, not wanting to look out of place, or just downright odd. But I kept my face pointed out the window. Not really being able to see anything apart from a grey blur, because of the large spray of mist the bus wheels were whipping up. Every now and then the image would have a smudge of colour, as a car shot past.

I had no idea where the bus was heading, but it was bound to be somewhere busy, somewhere I could blend into a crowd and simply disappear.

I was constantly worried that a voice would say, “Hello, Jacob.” And he would be sat next to me. The horrible smile fixed on his face.

I needn’t have worried because eventually, what with the boring grey blurry scenery, the constant stream of white noise that the large wheels made against the wet motorway, and the steady rocking movement of the bus – not to mention the accumulated heat of numerous passengers – along with the fact my coat was still wrapped around me, I fell fast asleep.

The next thing I knew I was jolted awake. I was lying on the cold hard tarmac of the motorway, with the rain striking my face. I was coming around from one of my weird dreams. I was confused and cold. Jagged forks of lightning flashing all around me.

It took me a few seconds to understand what had happened. The bus had crashed! I should have known it would, from the moment I had stepped on it.

The rain was pelting down hard, blurring much of my vision. To my right was the large grey shape of the bus. It was lying on its side, its wheels still turning, the engine revving loudly. The engine suddenly died, accompanied by billowing greasy grey smoke from the large silver grill. Silence and stillness dominated. Only the sound of the pouring rain could be heard, slapping hard against the dark tarmac, mixed with the constant rumbling of thunder far above.

I was confused; he hadn’t turned up and caused this. Then what had?

I was now on my knees, looking down at my hands – covered in blood. As I watched it was being diluted and washed away by the rain. My mind was spinning.

Fuck!

I slowly climbed to my unsteady feet. Looking around I could see other people staggering about. A few were even running around the motorway. Drivers on the other side of the reservation were stopping coming to their aid. The people seemed hysterical. Then again they had just been in a horrific crash.

Items and personal belongings were scattered everywhere.

And bodies.

A small child was floating facedown in an inky deep puddle on the side of the road, her small arms and legs akimbo; blood was soaked into her small pink jumper – the position was otherwise known as
dead mans float
. A teenager lay on his back, neck and legs twisted into unnatural positions. An older woman – whose dress had been ripped off, and only had underwear on, was sat up against the side of the bus, her head missing on one side. She still held a severed arm in her death grasp. How she had ended up there was anyone’s guess.

Glass had fallen from the shattered windows like the fallen rain; it was everywhere, making a million reflections from the dazzling lightning, as if a vault load of diamonds had been sprinkled on the ground.

A loud screeching sound caused me to spin around. A car skidded past, going way too fast in the heavy rain; he hadn’t seen the bus until it was too late. The red car skidded past, missing me by mere inches; I could feel the wind of it passing my face, heading directly towards the stationary bus. The car struck it directly in the rear, the bus had tipped and skidded along for at least a hundred meters, but keeping the same direction.

The car slammed into the large motionless object, metal rendered, more shattering of glass, as one of the passenger in the car went through the front windshield, like a test dummy he crumpled against the solid rear of the bus, and tumbled to the road like a sack of potatoes. Then in slow motion the car started moving backward, pushed away by the impact velocity. But before that had chance to come to rest another dark coloured car skidded and hit the red car side on. The new arrival then flipped, spinning in the air, just like a high budget movie. In slow motion it tumbled, seemingly cutting a path through the downpour of rain. It landed on its roof and continued to flip, finally coming to a halt on the hard shoulder.

Everything was so surreal.

Ragged flashes of lightning, for a split second, lit up the dark night. The heavy rain looked like it was momentarily frozen in it’s downwards surge. A frozen colourless horror image.

I just realized it was night time.

My mind tried to comprehend. I had slept for hours, for most of the day. But because of the early nights it could be four or ten o’clock, I had no idea.

Now some of the survivors of the bus crash were falling over the top of the bus, having to climb out the broken windows and lower themselves down to the wet asphalt.

The impact of the second car knocked the two people off balance who were trying to climb to safety. One dropped head first ten foot to the road. I couldn’t hear the crack, but I could imagine it, as his head struck the concrete. He didn’t move again. The teenage female jumped down, now hugging the motionless figure. Both soaked through to the skin in seconds, looking more like victims of a shipwreck. They were only a meter away from the dead woman in her underwear.

Looking around I could see people running across the motorway, all disorientated. Another cars breaks could be heard screeching in my general direction. A middle-aged female’s body flew over the green Volvos bonnet, her head making a loud smacking noise as it connected with the windshield, then over the roof, to eventually land like a boneless sack of flesh.

The rain was pouring down.

I stumbled up the muddy embankment, not wanting to be struck by speeding vehicles. From my new position I could see at least ten cars that had hit the stationary bus. Even as I counted another struck, but unlike all the others, this one spewed forth flames, having punctured its fuel tank. Fire and lightning now lit up the scene of carnage, momentarily picking out the bodies of people lying motionless on the wet dark motorway.

The explosion rocked the ground as the car disappeared behind a wall of billowing smoke and incinerating flames. The light from the blaze was a beacon to other drivers, who were now slowing down. Skidding tyres and shrieking brakes could be heard ringing thought the darkness.

People were now screaming and crying out. Bodies lay around the wreckage. Some from the bus, others thrown from the cars. Figures wandered around aimlessly. Confused and frightened.

A teenage woman, who was obviously in shock, had her arms wrapped around herself, head shaking from side to side, her mouth wide open, with most of her front teeth missing, blood pouring down her jumper. She reminded me of Stephen King’s Carrie. She was heading directly towards the flames.

Flashing red and blue lights now join in with the confusion. Police or ambulance, I wasn’t sure. I knew police cars continually travelled up and down the motorways, looking for speeding motorists. Tonight they had found death.

I continued up the embankment, heading for the fields and the covering the trees offered just beyond. Trying to get away from the flashing lights, while trying to work out what had happened.

The rain was still hammering down. I couldn’t remember the last day it hadn’t rained. Even remembered years back when Devon had over one hundred days of continuous rain, a record even for this wet part of the country.

My mind tried to disconnect from the images of the crash. I could imagine the poor souls who saw the first rain, during the biblical flood, as it took forty days to cover everything. How long did the people last before they could no longer stay afloat, could no longer hold onto the item that was keeping them alive? Imagining the people who climbed to the peak of the mountain. Imagining their fear as the water level eventually crept up to meet them, with them having nowhere else to run.

Could they even swim? People hardly use to travel, no public transport back then. If you couldn’t afford a horse, then you had to walk. Most people hadn’t even seen the ocean. Imagine seeing so much water, slowly rising to cover even the highest mountain.

But I knew I was trying to think of anything apart from what had just happened. Remembering my dream, twisted and distorted, disjointed images flashing before my eyes. I was running frantically up and down the buses narrow aisle. People screaming while looking at my contorted face. Children crying, parents pulling them into their arms.

With my black and white tunnel vision I remember zoning into the driver, sinking my teeth into the fleshy folds of his white neck. Then the bus pulled hard hitting the middle reservation barrier, riding along it, sparks flying, metal screaming in protest. Then a tyre had blown out, tipping the already unstable bus over onto its side. People became weightless – just like on the train – their bodies hitting each other, heads cracking against large thick windows. Personal belonging flying around as if in a tempest.

I shook my head. Just a dream. Nothing but dreams.

I could hear sirens across the field, where the wreckage and bodies littered the motorway. I heard a deafening roar of a large detonation, and then the sound of twisted falling metal. Even through the heavy rain I could see smoke billowing skyward.
Had the buses large tanks ignited?
I turned and continued across the muddy field, my trainers squelching loudly. My feet already soaked through and numbingly cold.

A small flickering light shone weakly through the trees up ahead. I headed towards it. It spoke of warmth and food. I could imagine the farmer coming in after a long day, taking off his wet coat and muddy boots, placing his feet before the large hearth. His wife cooking shepherd’s pie or lamb hotpot over the large old-fashioned Aga. Sweet smells filling the warm kitchen. A ginger cat sat on a wicker chair waiting to be fed while cleaning its ears. An old sheepdog, with a grey muzzle curled up on a thick rug.