careening into a high bank, wheels spitting mud and gravel as they squealed against protruding stones, away again, light dancing and vibrating across the road ahead of him as the Jeep bounced and jolted from side to side.
Warmer still …
Cole reached over and grabbed the .45 with his left hand, clicking off the safety and resting it between his legs. It was a cool, comforting weight. He fought with the steering wheel as the vehicle splashed through a deep puddle. A house flashed by on the left, whitewashed walls reflecting headlights back at him. Its occupants were probably tucked up cosy in bed, unaware of what had passed them perhaps only a few minutes before. They were dull sheep, sleeping and working, breathing and eating, never questioning the realities they were brought up to hold as truth.
Cole had seen things, done things. He knew that all such realities were lies, invoked because they painted comfortable pictures out of unnatural, unbearable paints. The truth was never easy to accept. It could drive a man mad. His own madness, his own unbearable truths, were buried deep. And he liked it that way. They spoke to him sometimes, but usually only in dreams, and he had become adept at forgetting his dreams.
Sandra with her long red hair?
Cole shook his head, and the point of one of those hidden memories sank back down into safe, impenetrable depths.
Ooh, very warm now Mister Wolf. Be seeing you soon. Don't forget to have fun, because fun is what it's all about. What else is there? Only death, and decay, and ten years of purgatory, you bastard. You'll never win, Cole. Never!
'What game are you playing?' Cole said, but Natasha did not answer, and he suspected that she had fallen silent for now. Is it just this? he thought. Maybe it was a tease and they went the other way. There's no rule to this little bitch, no rhyme or reason.
There was a hollowness in his chest at the thought of her being out, a void where hope had once existed. So many times over the years he had considered returning to the Plain, excavating the grave, pulling out Natasha's corpse and finishing what he had started. But he was scared and in denial. Even with everything he knew of the berserkers, he had believed that she would be dead. And that belief, that hope, had kept him away. That, and the certainty that unearthing a corpse that spoke to him would drive him mad.
Around the next corner a tractor blocked the road.
Cole stomped on the brake and clutch, righting the juddering wheel, the Jeep shuddering as the ABS kicked in, the farmer turning in his tractor, his face big and pale and comically shocked, mouth open and one hand coming up to protect his face against the two tonnes of metal hurtling toward him. Cole shouted and pressed the pedals harder, actually standing from the seat and bracing himself against the steering wheel. The tractor jumped forward as the farmer sped up, a reaction as useless as it was automatic. And the one thought that screamed out in Cole's mind was, What the hell is he doing out at three in the morning?
The Jeep hit a pothole and bumped to the left, burying its nose in the hedge. Cole was thrown forward, seatbelt locking across his chest and biting into his neck. It knocked the breath from him and, winded for the second time in an hour, he slumped back in his seat and gasped for air. The Jeep's bumper had nudged the tractor's big rear wheel, but only slightly. The farmer drove on for an extra few feet—as if afraid that the Jeep would leap ahead again, like an animal lunging at its prey—and then pulled over into a gateway.
'You alright?' the man shouted, jumping from the tractor and waddling up the road. He was wearing a boiler suit and Wellington boots, and in the glare from the Jeep's headlamps he looked like a lumbering puppet. Cole sucked in a breath at last and let out a hooting laugh, realising as he did so that he had been grasping the .45 so tightly between his knees that he could feel bruises forming there already.
'So do I just shoot this twat?' he said, laughing so hard that a string of snot powered from his nose. I'm losing it, he thought, too pumped up, too careless.
The farmer reached the Jeep and held out his hand as if to open the door. But then he looked inside, and whatever he saw in Cole's face caused him to move back a few cautious paces, eyes downcast. Dominant male, Cole thought, snorting again. He gave in to the laughter as he restarted the Jeep—it had stalled after striking the hedge—and by the time he scraped between the tractor and the far hedge he was guffawing almost beyond control. But it felt good, it felt like regaining control, so he let it come some more.
'Nearly there!' he said, laughing again. 'Nearly there for you, Natasha! I've been warming my gun so that the bullet's not too cold when it goes into your skull.' His head hurt, his leg was stiff with dried blood, and every time he turned the steering wheel it felt as though blades were slicing into his hands. 'Soon,' he said.
Cole glanced once in his rearview mirror. The farmer was already climbing back onto the tractor, probably trying to get his story straight so he could tell his fat wife later.
Natasha was there then, probing his mind, seeing how close he was and withdrawing again. She left something behind, an echo of herself. To Cole it felt like fear. He smiled.
He held the .45 in his right hand as he steered; dangerous, but he was unwilling to drop the gun now. If that had been Robert's car back there and he'd fumbled the pistol instead of clasping it between his knees, he could have lost his best chance. So no more risks. Not now he was so close.
And why does she want me to find them?
'She's sick,' Cole said, 'and mad. She's been under the ground for ten years.' He expected a smart answer from the living dead girl, but she had truly gone.
He looked left and right, searching for any gates to driveways, or narrow lanes, or parking areas. Roberts and his wife must have hired a cottage for the weekend, which would be good for Cole. No one else around to witness what was about to happen. If he was really lucky, the bodies would not be found for some time.
A few minutes later he saw the glare of car headlamps through the hedge to his right and he slowed down, killing his own lights. Moonlight was enough to see by at this speed. There were sparse white clouds in the sky now, like smudged paint on a blank black canvas, the stars splashes. He lowered his window, saw the entrance to the driveway, turned off the engine and coasted to a stop between the gateposts, blocking any route of escape.
The pistol felt good in his right hand.
It was Robert's car. Luck had lead Cole on …
Luck and her, luck and Natasha, because she wanted me here.
He wondered where she was, and guessed the boot. Roberts would not have wanted to put something like that, something old, mysterious, dead, on the backseat where anyone could see it.
The car's rear lights were still on, and there seemed to be a commotion in the driver's seat. Cole squinted, glancing aside to allow his night vision to make out the shapes, and then he smiled. Perfect. He felt no thrill at killing, took no pleasure; it was a job well done that pleased him.
This would be over very soon.
Opening the door he heard a woman's voice, raised and muffled, angry and relieved, and as his feet crunched down on the gravel he was glad she was making so much noise. This way, Roberts would not even hear the gunshot that killed him.
The interior light of Robert's car was on, and Cole saw him look in the rearview mirror, his eyes widening, mouth dropping open to shout a warning.
'Shit!' The last thing Cole wanted to do was to hunt these people down. This had to be quick.
He cupped his right hand in his left, braced his legs and started shooting.
Chapter Six
Tom had heard gunfire once before in the last twelve hours, but this was different. Out there on the Plain he had heard the blast and that was all; no bullet swishing by, no echo, no ricochet, no evidence of the shot other than the sound itself. Now it felt as though his whole world was exploding.
It took him a few seconds to associate what was happening around him with the gun blasts coming from behind. As he looked in the rearview mirror the back windshield shattered, misting and showering down in a thousand pieces. The mirror itself smashed, firing glass shards at his face, and a hole the size of his fist appeared in the front windshield. Something hammered on the roof once, twice, as if someone had taken to the car with a
