Breakdown (36 page)

The lights of the truck illuminated the roadblock in front of them, lit up the walls close on each side. Chris saw movement behind them in the mirror: a man with a club of some sort, in the glow of the reversing lights. “Keep going!” he said, thinking that no one was going to go up against a moving lorry with just a club. Then he saw the others in front of them, one with a shotgun, one with a pitchfork, one with what appeared to be some sort of spear. Chris watched the one with the shotgun. He did not aim it at them.

Michael tried to back up with just the mirror. “Damn! I can hardly see!” The cab jolted. A grinding came from the rear. Michael hit the brake.

“Damn!” he said again. “That’s it, we’re stuck.”

Another man appeared next to the lorry, on the driver’s side, in the small space between the rig and the wall. He held a pistol, and he put it up close to the window and aimed it at Michael, yelled at him, but Chris couldn’t make out the words.

Chris unbuckled his seat belt. “Open the window a bit.”

“Are you daft?” Michael said tightly. He had his gun ready, but kept it low, like Chris.

“Do it!”

Michael cranked the window down just a few centimeters.

“Get out of the lorry!” their assailant yelled.

“The rig is empty; we’ve got nothing,” Michael said.

“It’s the rig we want.”

Michael grimaced. “Not a chance.”

The man jumped up onto the step, grabbing the door handle with his free hand. “Get out!”

Chris brought his gun up suddenly, right in front of Michael’s face, aimed at the man on the other side of the glass. Michael pushed himself back into the seat.

“Price! For God’s sake!”

“Get back!” Chris stared at the man outside, who flinched. His eyes went from determined to unsure. The man kept the gun up, but his hand shook, and his mouth opened as his breathing quickened.

“Get back!” Chris yelled again, leaning in that direction just a bit.

The man outside the window leaned back.

“Get ready,” Chris said to Michael, hardly moving his mouth. The peculiar calm he’d felt a few times in London had dropped down over him like a cloak.

“For what?” Michael said through his teeth.

“Check my mirror.”

Michael moved his head to see. “He’s coming up slowly. He’s got a club.”

Chris leaned over more, put his gun right up against the window. “Get off the fucking lorry!”

The man outside Michael’s door abruptly stepped down.

“He’s yours, now,” he said quietly to Michael. “Get ready.”

Michael gripped his gun in his lap.

Chris had been holding on to the door handle next to him. Now he turned and threw himself at the door. Michael brought up his gun as Chris opened his door with his weight against it, knocking the man with the club to the ground. Chris was out the door and on top of him in an instant. The man dropped the club, threw up his hands and yelled as Chris shoved the barrel of his gun into the man’s face. He grabbed one of the man’s wrists and twisted his arm around. The man gasped.

Chris looked up at the others, who stood aghast, squinting in the harsh glare of the headlamps. “Move the barrier, or I’ll kill him!”

He hoped Michael was holding steady. The others all turned to look toward the one on the driver’s side, the one Michael was covering.

“Move the fucking barrier! Do it now!” Chris screamed at them. “I have a round for every one of you shitheads!”

After another tense second of immobility, they all dropped their improvised weapons and started to drag aside the crates and boards.

“Get up,” Chris said to the one on the ground and hauled him to his feet, keeping the muzzle of the gun pressed against his neck. He twisted the man’s arm up behind his back. The man retched, doubling over. Chris had to hold him to keep him from falling. Sweat glistened on the man’s face.

The lorry’s engine revved, and it crunched forward, pushing the last of the crates out of the way. The three men in front of the truck moved away on the driver’s side. Chris dragged the last one with him for a few meters, trying to stay even with the cab door as the lorry moved slowly forward, then let go and gave him a kick in the guts for good measure. The man collapsed onto the ground against the wall, clear of the tires.

Chris hauled the door open and jumped in. “Get out of here!”

Michael gunned the engine as much as he could, and they lurched away through the little village. Chris tried to put on his safety belt again, but his hands shook too much. He braced himself against the dash, gulped air.

“Goddamn!” Michael said hollowly. He loosed a string of colorful curses. “What the bloody hell was that? Were you trying to get us killed?”

“His gun wasn’t loaded,” Chris said, trying to sound sure of himself.

“How the hell do you know that? Are you some kind of psychic now?”

“The one with the shotgun never even pointed it at us. And he just didn’t act like it was loaded.”

Michael’s mouth fell open. “Didn’t
act
like it was loaded? What if he’d blown our bloody heads off?”

“What were you going to do, Cooper?” Chris turned on him, anger welling. “Offer him a pack of fags and a chocolate bar? Do you think that would have worked out better?”

Michael was quiet.

Chris grabbed the safety belt and buckled it. “I intend to get to Breton. I’ll do what I have to do.”

Michael gripped the wheel with white knuckles. “Would you have killed him? The one you had hold of?”

“Not that one. He’s already got it. He’ll be dead in a couple days, most likely.”

“You’re a piece of work, you are, Price. Where the hell are we? Find us a bloody road, would you?”

Chris got his map and torch out. “Just keep on a bit.”

They drove in silence for a few minutes and passed a road sign. Chris found where they were. He directed Michael to turn a few kilometers later, putting them back on a bigger road. After he’d negotiated the turn, Michael finally spoke.

“Look, Price, you were right. I wasn’t thinking fast enough. I guess you saved our asses back there. Thanks.”

Chris stared out the window. “You’re welcome. It might have gone different if they hadn’t been a bunch of stupid wankers who didn’t know what they were doing.”

Michael shook his head. “But you knew they were. You’ve done that before, haven’t you?”

The scene was already playing out in Chris’s mind: the lorry pulling up to the roadblock they had put just on the far side of a tight curve deep in the heart of London, the lorry trying to back up, Marcus jumping up onto the step on the driver’s side, the shots, the bodies falling out of the cab...and Marcus, standing over Tahir, threatening to shoot him.

“I wasn’t in the lorry,” Chris said eventually. He continued to watch the blackness beyond the headlamps.

“You are a piece of work, Price,” Michael said. “God, I need a drink. But I suppose water will have to do.” He pulled the truck over, and they both got out to relieve themselves, then had water and a couple of scones from the food bag. Chris didn’t say anything, and Michael left him alone. They were back on the road only a few minutes later.

Eventually Michael looked over at him. “Were you a cop? You know, before?”

“No. Not even close.”

“Usually, I don’t ask. I don’t see how it really matters, now, right? But you, Price—you have me beat. You have a Jekyll and Hyde thing, you know?”

Chris did not look at him.

“So, not military, then?”

“God, no.”

“You know how to handle a weapon,” Michael pointed out.

“I’ve had occasions to pick that up, over the years.”

Michael seemed to be thinking. “Did Pauline tell you what I did?”

“She said you dabbled in lots of things.”

Michael sighed. “Ah, Paulie. Always kind. You could have called me a professional screwup. I like to think that doesn’t matter now.”

Chris grunted. “No, I suppose not.”

“So, you’re not going to tell me?”

“Pauline didn’t tell you?”

“It never came up.”

Chris glanced at him. “It doesn’t matter now. You wouldn’t believe me, anyway.”

“Wouldn’t I?” Michael said thoughtfully. “Well, I’ve said it before, Price: you never cease to surprise me.”

“Shut up and drive.”

“Yes, sir,” Michael replied with a little salute.

Soon after, they encountered an official roadblock. Two men in army uniforms stood by with weapons ready while a third flagged them down. They all wore masks.

“Do you think
theirs
are loaded?” Michael said, shoving his pistol into his bag.

“Quite possibly,” Chris said, doing the same.

The man in charge checked Michael’s license and delivery papers.

“You’re not supposed to be on the roads,” he grated.

“I’m trying to get back to my warehouse in Portsmouth.”

“Portsmouth? You’re joking.”

“It’s on the papers,” Michael pointed out.

“They’re dropping like flies in Portsmouth. I’d go back if I were you.”

“It’s further to go back than to go on.”

The man glowered at Michael, then handed the papers back. “Head south here, then take the M27 around Southampton. You won’t get through the flooding, otherwise.”

“Got it. Thanks.” Michael gave him a little wave as they pulled away.

Chris was already consulting the map. “We don’t want to go that far south, do we?”

“No. We’ll turn east on Petersfield Road soon. It’s a straight shot from there.”

Chris tried to relax. They were less than twenty miles from Breton now, in familiar territory. Soon he would be with Pauline, holding her. He envisioned bursting in the kitchen door, her face lighting up as she saw him, running to him, kissing him. He considered the time. It was the middle of the night. She’d be in bed, asleep. Even better, he could join her.

“Shit,” Michael said, interrupting his thoughts. Another roadblock loomed in the headlights, blocking a right fork in the road. “That’s where we want to go.”

A uniformed soldier tried to wave them onto the left fork, his white mask standing out in the dark. Michael brought the lorry to a stop and wound down his window.

“We’re headed to Petersfield,” he said, trying to hand the soldier his papers.

The man kept his hands on his rifle and shook his head. “Petersfield is under quarantine.”

“Is it? We need to get off the roads, I know. We just need to get to Petersfield.”

“Sorry. I have orders. No one gets through. Now, push off.” He put his chin up and squared his shoulders.

“It’s the middle of the night,” Michael tried. “Where else can we go? They’re expecting us.”

Chris fought the urge to jump into the conversation, even though he was shaking with impatience. He figured Michael probably had far more experience with this sort of thing.

The soldier stood his ground, his eyes hard above the mask. “Push off.”

“Look, I can make it worth your while.”

“If you are suggesting a bribe, I have the authority to arrest you both and confiscate this rig and its contents,” the soldier snapped.

“Ah, right. We’ll be off then.” Michael cranked up his window and shifted into reverse. “Bloody pigheaded...” he muttered, trailing off as he backed the rig away from the barrier. “We can head northeast for a bit, then take another road back down.”

Chris checked the map. “Shouldn’t be much more than a few kilometers.”

The road, when they reached it, was solidly blocked by a rusting school bus. They continued on, finding one obstacle after another.

“We’ll be in London if this keeps up,” Michael grumbled after an hour of nosing carefully northeast.

“We haven’t actually got very far,” Chris said, and directed Michael onto a road heading south. “This looks good...should take us back to Petersfield Road.”

Ten minutes later Michael brought the lorry to a halt. They sat silently gazing out at the road where it ended abruptly in an expanse of black water. Chris wanted to pound his clenched fists on the dash. Michael took the map from him and made a notation in red.

“We’ll just go back and try again.”

Chris wasn’t sure how long they spent scouting around the countryside looking for passable roads. Michael wasn’t willing to risk the rig on some of the lanes Chris wanted to try.

“If we get stuck, we’re screwed,” he would say, and Chris grudgingly conceded. He knew Michael wanted to get to Breton almost as badly as he did. More than once Chris was sure they were hopelessly lost.

The sky was greying in the east when Michael gasped and trod on the brake.

“This is it!” He turned onto a maintained road heading due south. “If the bridge is okay, we’ve made it!”

The road dipped down toward the river, and Chris breathed a sigh of relief as the bridge came into sight. He recognized it; he’d crossed it when he’d left Breton.

They’d be getting up soon, he realized. Pauline and George would be starting the morning chores. Grace and Marie would be cooking breakfast. Unless...
No, they’ve never had it here. They won’t have it now. Please, please, not now.

The lorry crawled up the final hill in low gear, Chris fidgeting impatiently. Michael shifted and eased the lorry around the final turn into the village.

“Oh, shit,” he said.

CHAPTER 31

A
n improvised barrier stood in the road ahead, hardly visible in the dim grey predawn. Whoever had put it there had made no attempt to actually block the road. They’d simply set out two chairs with a board across them. Another board with a large red
X
painted on it leaned against that.

“Oh God,” Chris said, his fears realized.

Michael brought the truck to a halt.

“I’ll move it,” Chris said. He jumped down and approached the barrier. The door of the house nearest opened, and a man stepped out.

“Turn back! We’ve got the plague here! Can’t you see the sign?”

“Harry, it’s me, Chris Price.”

Harry squinted at him for a moment. “Well, so it is.”

“Do they have it at the Anderson place?”

“Don’t know, son,” Harry said. “I haven’t seen any of them in days.”

Now that Chris looked more closely, he could see that Harry was ill. He stood unsteady near his door.