A gaping hole appeared in the Mondeo's windshield, widening quickly as the shattered glass fell inward. It was Cole. His face was lit a devilish, bloody red from the bridge of the nose down. His eyes widened as he saw Lane, not two feet away from him.
For a second the scene froze, and Tom thought that instant would be his last. Nobody moved or made a sound, and perhaps he'd had a heart attack, his last wretched second on this earth imprinted on his mind as his body seized and his mind prepared to fade away.
Then Cole thrust his pistol into Lane's face and fired once, twice, again, and Lane's head came apart.
Tom ducked down behind the seat and looked at Natasha.
Mister Wolf, she said, and he nodded.
'I have to get you out of here,' Tom whispered. 'The others are in a bad way—still healing from the fight, maybe—and if he traps us in here we're dead. I smell petrol. I'm going to open the back door and run with you. Are you ready? Maybe we can hide, or maybe we can make it back to the industrial estate. There are lots of guns down there.'
You've never fired a gun.
Tom shook his head. 'It can't be that hard.'
Here! Natasha said. There are guns in here! Sophia's rifle, Lane's pistol.
Tom nodded, mind running so fast he could barely keep up. He had to distract Cole first, then scramble over the seats, find one of the guns, figure out how to use it, find out where Cole was, shoot him before he was shot himself. Easy. 'Easy,' Tom said. And he smiled. Because something was coursing through him and making him feel good. The wound in his back was a pleasant throb rather than a burning pain, as if he were having a constant massage. His fingers and toes tingled and his senses seemed sharpened as the light faded fast. Far from being terrified at what the next thirty seconds may bring, he was looking forward to them.
He smelled blood, and it was as good as wine.
More glass smashed, Cole grunted, and Sarah stirred in the seat in front of Tom. Dan was still whining as he tried to lift himself from the broken gear stick. Sophia remained still and silent.
Several more gunshots, and this time they were directed into the Range Rover. Someone gasped in pain. A bullet blasted through the seat three inches from Tom's head and shattered the rear window. Then he heard Cole's curse and the metallic snick of a magazine being ejected.
'Now!' Tom whispered. 'We won't have long.' He shunted the handle on the rear door and kicked it open. 'Run!' he shouted, dipping one foot out and scraping it across loose stones on the roadside. Then he turned, waiting until he heard Cole slip from the wrecked Mondeo and sprawl to the ground.
I love you Daddy, Natasha said. Tom smiled, confused, touched, and heaved himself over the rear seat. He landed half on Sarah and she lashed out with one hand, catching him across the face. He grunted and felt blood began to ooze from the gash she had put there. Heard her low, throaty growl. He wanted to tell her what he was doing, but by the time he'd done that Cole would be behind the Rover. Then, maybe five seconds until he realised he'd been duped. Tom had created a make-or-break scenario for all of them; he could smell the petrol, and once Cole knew what was happening he could ignite the wrecked cars with one careful shot. He punched out at the girl berserker and forced his way forward between the front seats. Dan whined louder, expecting help or trying to fight. Either way, his waving hands were ineffective. He was weak, still bleeding, and one of the wounds in the side of his head leaked something that was creamy green in the subdued light.
Tom glanced at the empty driver's seat—no pistol. Sophia was hanging across the bonnet, legs still in the passenger seat. In the footwell behind her legs lay the rifle. He leaned forward, straining against the seats that held him across the hips, touched the slick metal, curled his fingers around the barrel, pulled it toward him. Dan was batting his head, fingers scraping his scalp and drawing blood. 'Get off!' Tom whispered, but the berserker was mad, and Tom sensed dark, alien thoughts dancing at the fringes of his mind.
I hear Mister Wolf! Natasha said.
Tom started to panic. He pulled the rifle out between Sophia's dangling legs. She coughed, then moaned, then growled when she felt the metal batting her knees on the way past. 'I'm not against you,' he whispered, hoping his words would make it through. Dan still mumbled incoherently, and then Tom heard someone else muttering her way into his mind. Lane, the voice said, and it was Sophia. Lane … Lane?
Tom forced himself back and pulled the rifle after him.
He's past the car now, Daddy.
Seconds … maybe only seconds. Tom sat up, turned around and rested the rifle on the seatback. There was a scope, but he had never used a gun, and he was afraid that if he looked through it he would miss things happening at the periphery. He had not yet seen Cole.
Sarah screeched out loud and lurched up for him.
'No!' Tom whispered, and he heard someone skidding to a halt on the road.
Cole stepped into the frame of the open back door, maybe twenty feet away. He was staring into the Range Rover, his face a dark mask of blood in the dim light, the pistol glinting in his hand. 'Sneaky bastard!' he said.
Tom pointed the rifle and pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened.
Cole ran at the Rover, lifting his pistol, and Tom saw the maw of its barrel growing to swallow him whole.
Daddy! Natasha said. The others were whispering at him now, pained and angry, raging, their thoughts so dark and confused that he could make no sense of them. He pulled the trigger, and nothing happened again.
'Safety,' Cole said. He stood at the open door, aimed his pistol at Tom's chest and shot him for the second time that day.
Tom fell back and his vision left him with a blinding flash, like a bulb brightening before finally burning out. He could not breathe. His chest felt heavy, as if his organs had turned to lead. For some reason he thought of Steven when he was six years old, waking one morning and creeping downstairs before he and Jo heard him, cooking them toast, buttering it, making tea with cold water and picking a rose from the back garden before bringing everything up on a tray. Happy Christmas, he had said, and though Christmas had been weeks away they had spent that morning laughing and playing and being everything a family was meant to be.
Tom's body began to burn from the inside out. And as all senses receded to a point on the horizon of consciousness he smelled petrol and blood, heard a volley of gunshots, and then screams as flames licked at flesh.
As Roberts fell back another shape rose from the seat, grabbed the rifle, nudged the safety and fired off a shot. Cole felt the bullet singe the hairs on his left ear. He put two bullets into the shape—one of the young bastard berserkers, all grown up—and as it howled he snatched up Natasha.
So light! He almost stumbled as he picked up the berserker bitch. He'd been prepared for some weight, but there was hardly anything to her at all. It was like lifting a bundle of straw and twigs.
The shape rose again in the backseat, shaking like a wet dog, spraying the Range Rover's ceiling with a fan of blood. Cole turned and ran, expecting at any second to feel a high velocity bullet tear out his spine. He zigzagged, feet scraping on the ground, and as he looked down at the bundle in his arms he let out an involuntary laugh. He had her! After so long, the greatest mistake of his life was about to be put right.
I'm dying, she said in his mind, I can't move, I haven't fed, I'm dying.
'Poor girl,' Cole said, laughing again. He should stop now, stand on her chest and put a bullet in her head, but he could still hear howling and commotion from the Range Rover … and he could still smell petrol in the air.
He turned. There were shadows dancing in and around the crashed cars. He dropped Natasha to the ground, braced himself and fired beneath the Range Rover. The third shot threw up a spark, the spark expanded into a wavering blue flame, and seconds later the vehicle's ruptured fuel leads ignited. He turned and fell to the ground as the fuel tank exploded. Natasha had rolled to the edge of the road and he scrambled after her on hands and knees, not caring about sharp stones or the burning debris falling around him, concerned only with this berserker bitch whom he had spent years regretting not killing when he had the chance.
Don't hurt me! she said, and he shouted, 'You've changed your tune!' Another thumping explosion came from along the road as the Mondeo's fuel tank went up. He was sure all these fireworks must be attracting attention, but he supposed it could have been only fifteen minutes since the first shots were fired down in the valley. Whatever, he did not have long. He would shoot the berserker now and run like fuck. Because however hot that fire, however weak those others were, he did not for a minute believe he had killed them all.
