A World Torn Down (Book 6): The Road To Redemption Page 2

  “Speak of the devil.” Deacon is unheard as Jackson rides through the quarry’s entrance at the helm of a row of bikers. At the rear, a khaki Land Rover follows, a large livestock trailer bumping across the stony ground behind it. “Very bloody dramatic.”

  The bikes roll to a stop beside Deacon’s van. As the engines die, Jackson strides towards them. In a swift move, he pulls a rifle from behind his back, and aims it at Deacon.

  “Hands up!” he shouts as he continues to stride forward.

  Deacon declines to raise his hands; Jackson doesn’t scare him and he won’t show any deference to the man. Jackson continues forward, gun raised and pointing straight at Deacon. Taking a decisive step forward to meet him, Deacon asks, “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “The pleasure will be all mine, Carlisle, once I start on you.”

  “Get back on your scooter, Jackson. I’m busy.”

  “Peath!”

  “What you got there?” Jackson’s attention moves to Dan still wriggling against his bonds.

  “Unfinished business, Jackson, and none of yours.”

  “Oh? Is that so?” Jackson’s eyes narrow. “I’m not so sure about that. It looks to me like you’re taking the law into your own hands.”

  “And what if I am?”

  Jackson’s eyes narrow and lock onto Deacon’s. “Well, then that would make it my business, seeing as I’m the law around here.”

  Deacon snorts; with his overly long moustache and greying lamb chops covering his jaw, Jackson has become a cliché. All he needs is a Stetson and a sheriff’s badge to complete the picture. “You’re the law?”

  Jackson’s shoulders square and he rises to his full height. “I am.”

  “Says who? On whose authority? There’s no one in charge around here.”

  “Well, that’s just where you’re wrong, Carlisle. Now, hands up before I shoot them off.”

  An intense and angry frown deepens across Deacon’s brow as he stares back at Jackson; since when had the man become the one in control of the town? Perhaps since you started using the bottle as pain-relief, Deacon?

  “Best do as he says, boss,” Chris says as the other bikers, also armed, group around Jackson.

  Deacon rears. “You may want to keep your own Micky Mouse Club under control, Jackson, but your jurisdiction doesn’t spread to me, or any of the other survivors.”

  “You don’t control me, Jackson!” Shona shouts, though she slips behind Chris.

  He places a protective arm around her. “She’s right! You’re not the boss of us.”

  “No jurisdiction here, Jackson,” Deacon affirms with a smirk.

  Jackson’s stare becomes steel. “Well, you see, Carlisle, that’s just where you and your buddies are wrong.” He takes another step closer to Deacon. “I can explain it all to you later, but right now I have more important business to attend to; I want my sheep.”

  “Sheep?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Dan had accepted the punch from Deacon with stoicism; it was the least he could do, and was the least he deserved. From Deacon’s reaction to Cassie, and his willingness to help rescue the children, Dan had judged him to be a man with compassion; he’d been wrong. The punch had been intense, powered by deep-rooted pain and rage, and Dan had been knocked unconscious whilst Cassie, Rick, and the children, had watched on in silence. When he came round, only Celie was paying him any attention, and she was only looking over her shoulder as Cassie guided her back to their car. He isn’t sure what hurt more: the crashing thump against his jaw, or Cassie’s indifference to his suffering?

  As he’d pulled himself to his knees, mud and stones still clinging to his cheek where he’d hit the ground, a massive hand had grabbed his shirt collar and he had been hauled from the verge, then half-dragged, half-carried back to Deacon’s van, and thrown inside. They’d gagged him, and tied his hands. At that point he’d been merely alarmed, but fear had set in later when they’d tied him to a chair in a damp basement and his imagination had begun to wreak havoc on his nerves; every sound was a rat scurrying towards him, every squeak of floorboards from upstairs was Deacon finally coming down to torture him. He imagined the giant’s massive frame at the top of the stairs, backlit by the dim kitchen light, bag of tools in hand, clomping down the wooden steps with his hobnailed boots, beard-rings clinking with each step. As the hours had worn on, and his heart had reduced its terrified pounding, he’d succumbed to a fitful sleep, only waking to the thin light of dawn as it seeped in through a narrow and grimy window close to the basement’s ceiling.

  As the morning wore on, and the basement brightened, he scoured its walls, surprised at how organised the place was. Metal shelving covered three of the walls, and a long wooden workbench had been constructed against another. Each shelf was stacked with wooden or plastic trays and the earthy smell of root vegetables mingled with apples. In some, straw poked from the sides, a trick that he and Monica used in their efforts to preserve the fruit they’d found growing in one of the orchards in their village. He’d yearned for Monica then, been unable to stop himself calling her name; perhaps if he thought about her hard enough, she would come to save him? Wallowing in self-pity, he had sat with head bowed, skin damp in the chill basement, and allowed a tear to roll down his cheek. Thudding from above, and the banging of the cellar door opening, was followed by heavy footsteps and the two men who had tied him to the chair last night. The waft of stale beer accompanied them into the room. Only when they’d dragged him back into the kitchen had the terror, and desperate need to save himself, kicked in.

  A droplet of blood stains the chalky ground beneath his wrists as he continues to strain at the ropes. The back of his hand is raw, but he has managed to loosen the ropes a fraction and moved at least three feet away from the others without being noticed.

  As their conversation becomes heated, he increases his efforts; the soreness on his wrists and hands sharpens as he tugs at the rope, forcing it over the back of his hand. It reaches the knuckles, and he shunts back another couple of feet. Jackson squares up to Deacon, their respective henchmen take steps forward, and the woman backs up to their van. Pain across his hand brings tears to his eyes; the skin is raw, peeling beneath the pressure and roughness of the rope. Behind him, just beyond the burned-out car, the quarry has a gentler, tree-covered slope and beyond that, a woodland; if he can make it in there, then he has a chance to get away. If he doesn’t, he is more than certain that today will be the day he dies although, at whose hands, he is no longer sure. Deacon bats at the muzzle of Jackson’s rifle and they both begin to shout. Angry voices fill the cavernous quarry, with Jackson’s louder. Dan hears, ‘my sheep’, ‘thieves’, ‘my property’, ‘my people’. Deacon raises his above Jackson’s: ‘no thief’, ‘arsehole’, ‘my property’, ‘take what I want’, ‘you’re not the boss’.

  The rope slips off Dan’s hand as Deacon throws a punch. The woman screams. Jackson staggers back, blood seeping from his nose and dripping into his large moustache, and Dan, the pain suddenly relieved, loosens the coils of the rope, unties his feet, and runs, then sprints, towards the blackened car. Screams, shouting, and thuds sound behind him and, as he reaches the bonnet of the wreck, a shout of guttural rage reverberates, ‘Dan ... Morgan!’

  Dan staggers behind the car, stumbling at the passenger door, then quickly assesses the area. The urge to run is immense, but he slows himself to check the position of the others. Rising from a crouch, he peers through the broken window frame. Jackson, his gang, and Deacon, are all staring in his direction. Shona has retreated to the car. Only Chris is running out across the quarry towards him. Dan’s sphincter contracts and he springs to the sloping bank and its covering of shrubs and trees.

  Arms up to protect his face, he pushes through the criss-crossed branches of the hawthorns. Thorns spike his sleeves, and one rips his cheek, but he forces through. On the other side, the ground opens to more sparsely spaced trees.

  “Morgan!” Deacon’s guttural r
oar fills his ears as Dan twists between the trees. The cracking of branches tells him Chris isn’t far behind. He climbs higher, pulling at roots, saplings, and the fibrous stems of bracken, grasping at anything that will give him purchase and help him climb the steep slope. Engines thrum in the quarry. His heart pounds. The trees give way to a wooden fence and a field of overgrown wheat beyond. He makes a mental note to search for a similar field once he and Monica find a new place to live—if he can get through the day alive!

  “THREE YEARS I HAVE been looking for that man! Three fucking years and now you have fucked it up! You utterly useless turd!”

  Jackson’s lips pull back in a scowl revealing his teeth. “Why you snivelling, drunken wretch!” With a snap of his fingers, the two remaining bikers close in around Deacon. Jackson’s rifle trained on Deacon’s chest they grasp his arms. He tugs free and gives the man to his right a kick. The man buckles, and drops to his knees.

  “That’s enough, Carlisle! Just stand the fuck still. I came here for my sheep, not to-”

  “I’ve already told you; I haven’t got your rotten bloody sheep!” He yanks his left arm free and the biker holding it quickly steps to the side, out of kicking reach. “I was up at Lennox’s place last night rescuing a couple of kids, not stealing sheep.”

  Jackson’s eyes narrow.

  “It’s true, Jackson,” Shona calls from the car. “He went up to get a couple of kids back for a woman from across the river.”

  “Cassie Morgan.”

  “Who the buggery is Cassie Morgan?”

  “Dan Morgan’s wife.”

  “And he is?”

  “The bloke who just ran off into the bushes.” Deacon sighs. “Dan Morgan is the reason we are all living like pigs in shit. He was the CEO of Morgan Industries, the company that developed the bacteria that caused the plague.”

  Staring at Deacon as he explains exactly who Dan Morgan is, and just why Deacon had been about to execute him, Jackson’s face grows stony and he looks from Deacon to the scrubland the man had escaped into. As his brows furrow, Chris returns at a run. There is no sign of Dan Morgan.

  “He got away!” he pants as he joins them.

  Jackson squares his shoulders, grips his rifle a little tighter, then says, “In my official capacity as Chief Law Enforcer of Barton, I declare Dan Morgan an outlaw and criminal, wanted on the charge of mass murder. It is my duty to bring him to justice.” He turns to Deacon with a steely gaze. “Carlisle, you’ve had your turn at kangaroo justice, we don’t tolerate vigilantes around here.”

  Deacon scoffs and shakes his head; the man is ridiculous. “He killed my wife-”

  “He killed my wife too, Carlisle.” Jackson pats his chest, then jerks a thumb at the petite brunette beside the livestock trailer. “He killed Trina’s aunt, her mother, and her brother.” He turns to the biker at his side. “He killed Elliot’s daughter, and his son.” He points to another man. “And he wiped out Carey’s entire family. Isn’t that right, Carey.” The man nods, his eyes already betraying emotion. “Dan Morgan must face justice—for us all, not to satisfy your grief.”

  “But-”

  “My word is final, Carlisle. Now ... I’m not an unfair man. I accept that it wasn’t you who stole my sheep, and I recognise your need to see justice meted out to Dan Morgan, I even share your need for vengeance on behalf of everyone who died because of his ... selfish greed, so I offer you this ... Join me.”

  Their eyes lock and, despite his burning resentment, Deacon accepts.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Saskia’s heels sink a little further into the soil as she leans into Lennox. Her head throbs at the point where she’d caught a blow last night, but she thrills as the flames of the pyre lick higher. The boys had done well, and the pile of logs beneath the body had been at least three feet high; there would be nothing left but false teeth and ashes by tea time.

  A truck, red and gleaming in the morning sun, works its way over the long driveway to the farm and she walks back to the yard to greet their visitor. Fluffing blonde curls over her shoulders, she strides out across the ribbed concrete, boot heels clacking, making sure every part of her five foot and one-inch frame is presented with absolute perfection and confidence; she is the boss, they had all best remember that.

  The truck sweeps into the yard and barking erupts from the pens beyond the brick outhouses as Durham jumps from the cab of the polished flatbed truck.

  “New motor, Durham?” Lennox asks as the men clasp hands mid-air in a show of manly greeting.

  Durham pats the front bumper. “Yep.” Traded it with Trask yesterday.

  “Traded?”

  “Bloke owed me. He’s been a regular at the house—all on the tab.”

  Lennox chuckles and Saskia grimaces, irked once more that she hadn’t thought of instituting a brothel in the town but, in her defence, she had underestimated the men’s drive to fornicate; since the apocalypse, it took almost everything out of her just to get through each day.

  Durham catches her gaze, and his nose wrinkles. “Stinks of barbeque around here. You lost another one, Saskia?”

  She bridles at his reference to the two ‘workers’ that had died in the past three months. “No, I have not. My stock is clean and healthy. No, this is ...” she gestures to the burning pyre with its billowing black smoke just beyond the orchard, “was ... Maurice Stamford. He picked a fight with the wrong lady.”

  Durham whistles. “You killed him?”

  “He was a nonce. He deserved it.”

  “Jackson won’t-”

  “Stop right there!” she spits stabbing a hand out to exaggerate her point. “Jackson Devereux has no say over what I do.”

  “That’s not what I’ve heard.”

  “What have you heard, Durham?” Lennox asks with a frown that matches Saskia’s. “What’s he been saying?”

  “It’s not what he’s been saying.” Durham moves towards the farmhouse as he continues to speak. “It’s what he’s been doing. Some of his lads are regulars, and a few beers, and a stroke of a hand in the right place, loosens tongues.”

  “Disgusting!” Saskia mutters.

  Durham raises a brow in her direction and laughs. “Not disgusting enough for some of them. Anyway, word is that Jackson has appointed himself as Lord High and Mighty Sheriff of the town. Says he wants the place to be civilised, like.” Durham snorts. “And won’t tolerate any wrong doing.”

  “We’ve heard about that.”

  “The man has got way above himself; he’s just the leader of a poxy motorbike gang for crying out loud.”

  “Well, it seems he’s going all out to be the de facto leader of the town.”

  “Pah!”

  “One of his lads told me that he’s planning on putting a guard on the roads so he can keep undesirables out.” Durham gives Saskia a meaningful glance.

  Pinching her lips together she throws him a glare. He laughs in return. “Only kidding, I’m sure he’d let you in, Sas. Seriously though, he’s talking of charging a toll to get in and out—like a tax.”

  “Tax! I’m not paying no bloody tax to get into town—bloody shithole!”

  “And, he’s set up a court.”

  Lennox snorts with derision. “A court! What the hell for?”

  “Like I said, he wants the place to be civilised. Apparently, he’s said anyone committing an offence will have to appear in the court and face prosecution.”

  “What the hell!”

  “There’ve been two women up in court so far ... and whipped.”

  “What for?”

  “Skiving.”

  “Skiving!”

  “I guess it’s one of the crimes he has written down in his book; he runs a tight ship down at the football club and he doesn’t put up with shirkers.”

  “So ... he had them whipped?”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “I saw him hang a man when they first took over the club,” Saskia adds.

  “Aye, that would be Frank. He
stole a tin of pasta by all accounts.”

  “Jesus!”

  “Anyway, like I said, he wants to rule the roost, and if he finds out you’ve murdered Mangey Maurice then he may have a few words to say to you.”

  “I didn’t murder no one. He was a nonce! And anyway, I don’t care what Jackson thinks, he’s not the boss of me.”

  “No, he’s not, I am,” Lennox chimes in.

  Saskia spits back a ‘no you’re bloody well not’ but hugs a sense of satisfaction to herself; belonging to Lennox was exactly what she wanted, at least until she tired of him. “If Jackson comes up here ... he’ll find out the hard way exactly who is in charge. He can take his law book and stuff it where the sun don’t shine.”

  “Agreed.”

  The fire spits and the flames leap. A dog howls from the pen.

  “If I didn’t know that was old Mangey burning, I’d be tempted; smells like barbeque.”

  Saskia gags at the thought. “That is disgusting!”

  “It is,” Durham winks. “But don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it—in the winter months, like.”

  “No, I most certainly have not. We have plenty of meat here.”

  “The dogs,” Lennox explains with a glance beyond the yard.

  Durham grimaces.

  “Durham,” Saskia says, tired of the irrelevant chatter and irked by the flicker of disgust in the man’s eyes at the mention of dogs. “What exactly are you doing up here?”

  “Apart from gazing on your beauty, my lovely, I’ve come to check out your new stock.” His gaze shifts from Saskia, to the padlocked brick outhouses across the yard.

  Saskia offers him a sour smile. “Well, then, you’re out of luck, my new stock has already been moved on.”

  Durham huffs. “When will you get new stock in?”

  “Come back tomorrow.”

  “I’m not wasting more fuel coming up here to check on stock that doesn’t exist, Saskia!”

  “Well, you can find your whores from somewhere else then!”