The Devils Harvest: The End Of All Flesh Part 19

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.

25.

Expected The noise of the pa.s.sengers stuck inside a confined s.p.a.ce, 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. .h.i.t a b.u.mp 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, "h.e.l.lo, 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 acc.u.mulated heat of numerous pa.s.sengers 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.

f.u.c.k!

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.

Gla.s.s 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 pa.s.sing 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 gla.s.s, as one of the pa.s.senger 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. .h.i.tting 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.

How wrong I was.

As I approached only a few lights shone from the large old house. I had moved toward the house from what looked like the rear side. There were open fields between me and the building; which promised warmth and protection from the pelting rain.

Tall long-needled conifers circled the field, keeping out the little amount of light the waning gibbous moon reflected, that was also struggling to break through the thick cloud layer.

Rain slammed down, I could feel it hitting my body, which was already biting cold, now starting to ache. My arthritis was starting to flare up in my knees.

I walked head down, tugging across the open field. My feet pushing through the thick boggy loam. Then suddenly I was walking up a slight incline. I came to an abrupt halt, looking down inside a vast hole in the ground. A large section of the field had been churned up. Ending in a hole I stood near, looking down into. It was hard to judge just how long the trench was that made up the destruction, the rain was far too heavy to see through clearly.

Something sat at the bottom of the trench; the rain bounced and echoed of its surface. But the light was too grainy and the hole too deep to see anything. Also the sides of the hole were too slippery to move any closer. It looked like something had fallen hard ripping up the field and coming to a stop below.

I had no idea where I was, so I had no reference to what it could be. Maybe a private plane had crashed and was partly buried around me. That couldn't be, the place would be swarming with rescuers and police and The UK Air Accidents Investigation Branch. Maybe it was an archaeological site. I had to admit it was too dark and raining too hard to get a proper view. It could simply be a discovery track, digging to locate whatever they were looking for, and the vast hole was the main dig site. If that were true then where was all the scaffolding, lifting equipment, a.s.sorted machinery needed for an excavation this large? It could have been removed, taking shelter from the driving rain in one of the large barns. Channel 4's Tony Robinson and the Time Team could be sat in a portacabin just on the other side of the trees.

It all came down to simple guesswork. How was I to know that it was something I would never have guessed, even in my wildest dreams.

I navigated around the hole. Every now and then lightning would light up the disturbed field, but by the time I glanced around, to see if I could catch a better look, the darkness once again dominated, and because of the lightning, my vision was even worse.

I trudged across the soggy field, heading towards the copse line and the old farmhouse.

I pushed through the trees, water cascading down over me, but unable to make me any wetter than I already was. Up ahead was the back of the farmhouse and its large wide-open yard.

A tractor rested under an old galvanized covering. Farmyard implements were scattered around, leaning against walls or stacked inside the entrance to the large barn. A flatbed truck was wedged against one wall, its wheels missing having breeze blocks in there place. On top of the flatbed was large, what looked like, terracotta pipes. Beside it was a horsebox, which fared no better. Against another wall was a pick-up trucks canopy that rested upside down, filled up with water. Also a rusty rotary sweeper lay on its side, with half its blades missing. Over outside the barn lay a slurry pump, which had been stripped down. Under another covering was a mountainous collection of what looked like fertiliser bags all stack up high.

I couldn't hear any animals, no cows or sheep. Possibly drowned out by the sound of the hammering rain on the galvanized barn roof.

I kept my head down, so the rain wouldn't run down the front of my coat and enter my hood. My feet splashed through deep puddles. Mud and straw filled the courtyard. No dogs came running towards me, skipping around barking. Inside as well I suspect, out of the rain and biting cold.

I stood under the wide metal veranda above the backdoor. I didn't know what I would say. I glanced around again. Something caught my attention, an old green Morris Minor, similar to the one that had picked me up when I was first running from the police. It looked the same, but it was hard to tell through the driving rain. Same colour and design nothing more. Just a coincidence, I thought to myself.

I went to raise my hand to knock on the thick oak door, when suddenly it swung open. There stood before me was the same little old man who had given me a lift. He said nothing; he simply stood aside and motioned for me to enter.

I stood unmoving while trying to piece things together.

Then suddenly a loud voice echoed out from the open doorway. "Enter Jacob."

Him! What was he doing here?

The old wrinkled man wandered off, arms hung limply at his sides, leaving the door wide open, disappearing around a dark corner down the hallway. Uncaring if I entered or not.

I entered.

The farmhouse smelt musty and old; reminding me of the small cottage I had stayed in for the last few days. Then it hit me. The old man and woman were dead. They were dead when they first picked me up in their little car. That's why the small wiry dog kept giving them strange glances, and why, when the door open to let me out, it had bolted up the road.

"Correct," said the hollow eerie voice.

I still couldn't see anyone. I walked along the small hallway. The stairs winding up to my left. To the right was a closed door, which was nailed shut. Three more doors, two on the left one to the right. Old worn carpet barely covered the old rickety floorboards. Dusty sideboards sat between the doorways, covered in chipped vases and dried dusty flowers. Mahogany framed pictures hung from the mouldy wallpaper; photos or paintings too dark to see. Only the end door on the right was open, light spilling into the cold hallway. Dust slowly falling to lay at rest once again, disturbed by the old man when he answered the door.

I moved along cautiously, wondering what would be in the room to greet me. My hand closed around the doorframe, as I stepped into the room.

It was large, possibly the main front room, or Great Room as it was called. Against one wall a fire roared, the yellow light spilling out into the room. All the corners were shrouded in shadows, dark and ominous; looking like anything could jump out at any given moment.

Furniture of all descriptions filled the walls; large delicately carved cabinets, filled with bric-a-brac. Stuffed animals hung from the walls and sat in dirty gla.s.s cases. Dark wooden sideboards nestled in a couple corners, supporting more grimy items. Several chairs, high backed and normal ones, littered the middle.

Oddly, an a.s.sortment of farmyard implements rested against one wall a pitchfork, a couple bill hooks, a pick axe and a long edging tool. Alarmingly, they were all covered in congealed blood.

A large couch faced the fire. Four heads could be seen silhouetted against the firelight. One was trailing cigarette smoke.

They had been expecting me.

PART TWO.

The Watchers.

Moreover, when you hear of wars and reports of wars, do not be terrified; [these things] must take place, but the end is not yet. For nation will rise against nation and kingdom against kingdom, there will be earthquakes in one place after another, there will be food shortages. These are the beginning of pangs of distress.

The Christian Bible, Mark 13: 7-8.

As for human beings, their days are numbered, and whatever they keep trying to achieve is but wind!

The Sumerian legend, the Epic of Gilgamesh, Tablet II.

26.

Revelations.

I rounded the couch to find the four figures sat in a neat row. On one end sat the two old people I had thumbed a lift with, both sat motionless, gla.s.sy eyes locked onto the yellow burning fire, as if seeking more than just heat from it.

Beside them sat the two others. One was smoking the very bus driver I had attacked in my dream. The driver was almost pure white from lack of blood. His clothes were dripping wet, coat undone, fragments of gla.s.s imbedded in his chest and head. His wet hair was plastered to his ashen face. The worst was his neck, ripped open and showing internal veins, ligaments and even one section of his yellowed spinal cord. Blood soaked his clothes. He sat, legs crossed, cigarette perched on blue lips, eyes gla.s.sy one moment, moving and alive the next. For a moment I wondered how he had beaten me here from the crashed bus.

Alongside him was another man, one I didn't recognise. I had a feeling he was a work-hand from the farm, possibly the old couples son. He was about forty years old. He was wearing dungarees and a patchwork soiled red and white flannel shirt, along with big green Wellington boots. He also looked slightly disabled, possibly down syndrome. But like the others, he was now a host for something else.