In The End Box Set | Books 1-3 Stevens, GJ (story books to read TXT) 📖

breath. “Thank you. Take the back roads. I want to avoid the ANPR cameras as much as we can.”

“You owe us more pizza,” Mike said, flicking his gaze to the empty box at my feet as he turned us down a side street, leaving behind the only other car on the road.

“You owe us a pizza shop,” Dan said with a great smile.

Gratitude welled in my chest, a renewed optimism I was doing the right thing. The feeling subsided as I saw the phone in my hand. I wanted to throw it away.

About to pull the sim card and snap it in two, I paused with Toni’s wide smile flashing before my eyes. It was the only way she could get in touch.

Breathing back the welling pressure, I unlocked the screen and slid my finger to turn off data. It would have to do for now.

The journey was slow, the van not meant for a high-speed getaway along the A-Roads, but at least the tarmac was clear in the most part. The drive was pleasant enough, watching families as they travelled, their exhausts white in the cold, Christmas jumpers on show, winding their way between friends and family.

Joining the motorway, Mike asked for directions or a postcode for the Sat Nav, but I had none to give. Bodmin was all I could say, was all I’d got from the one-sided conversation over four hours ago.

I spent the time holding back the worry for what had become of Toni, thinking of how her words couldn’t be true.

Experiments, yes. She was a biologist of some sort.

Experiments on the living? It wasn’t a big leap to make. But the mention of the dead rising and the fear in her voice chilled me, but at the same time pulled at my need to know more. My need to spread the word. That need had given me the success I’d already achieved. And some might say helped a few people less fortunate along the way.

Turning off the motorway I was already planning what I would say when we met again. I would say hello, exchange small talk perhaps. I’d get the story and make sure she was safe, then I’d be on my way. No complications. No lingering in the past, determined not to jump back in headfirst, remembering why I’d had to pull us apart.

Maybe this was just what I needed to close that chapter of my life and find another to write the rest of my story with.

We stuck to the main road, heading in the general direction of Bodmin, crossing into Cornwall after forty-five minutes. No signs highlighted our approach to the moor, but as the red and white warnings appeared at the roadside, I questioned the words which had started this all off.

Repeating for the hundredth time, I replayed her voice in my head with my stomach sinking further every time I read the evenly-spaced signs declaring the ‘Foot and Mouth Infected Area’.

“Slow down,” I said, squinting through the cold air.

The van slowed, halving the speed as sign after sign went past the window.

I’d seen this before. I’d reported for Bare Facts as a Student Features Editor in Surrey.

Back in 2007, I’d stood at the roadblocks, cleaning my boots so many times. I’d chatted with the police manning the road closures. I’d watched as trucks brimmed with carcasses, hoofed feet jutting over the top as they moved the culled to their resting place. I’d watched the smoke rise into the sky and seen the fear for their livelihoods in the farmer’s weary eyes.

Each side road we passed on the A30 had a sign declaring ‘Road Closed’, accompanied with a static line of cones. The turn off for Bolventor was the only open junction. We took it, slowing to take in the line of army trucks on the grass verge as we turned the first corner.

Moving closer to the hamlet, we watched the line peppered with police cars. The crests were different to what we’d expected; military, not Devon and Cornwall Constabulary.

Eyes peered back, mouths pulling on cigarettes. We didn’t stop, kept up the momentum.

At the centre of the small collection of buildings was a pub, The Jamaica Inn. The car park to its side was full of heavy canvas olive-drab tents. We didn’t stop.

Driving back towards the dual carriageway, we saw the same line of trucks repeated as we built up the distance.

Mike was the first to spot our tail, the low sun reflecting from the Range Rover’s white, blue and yellow paintwork. Two dark figures stared towards us as they kept two car lengths behind.

Still we drove on, re-joining the slow lane and getting up to speed before we hit our first traffic jam.

Still, it was reminiscent. I remembered the archive footage; Tony Blair with rolled-up shirt sleeves in the command centre, over-viewing the massive operation during an outbreak as the century turned. I remembered the headlines, the cancelled sporting events. The restrictions on country pursuits and mass graves with carcass after carcass dropped from the scoop of a JCB. The government had taken it seriously.

I took a second look at the road ahead and saw the few cars in front, watching as they released each one to crawl around a pair of green trucks parked on the inside lane at obscure angles.

Without a word, Dan jumped in the back, already unpacking the camera to film what looked to be a traffic accident, while a soldier in a yellow hi-vis vest stood by the Armco central reservation, motioning the cars forward to squeeze past a third truck blocking the second lane.

Soon we were next in line, the hand motioning for us to slow as Mike negotiated the tight turn, micro-correcting the wheel to the soldier’s instructions so we could get through the gap.

We were through and he turned hard left