Shepherd

FIFTEEN

The same crane that must have first been used to move the wrecks was parked around the back. Shepherd found that the keys were still in it and there seemed to be enough fuel to do what he wanted. He avoided the spot where Martha had died. Died, he thought. Murdered more like. He took the long way round, approaching the stacked junkers from the side before bringing the jib down. Then, slowly, he began to move the wrecks one by one, like a parent cleaning up a pile of bricks after a child. He thought at times that he could make out bodies at the wheels of those cars. Skeletons picked clean by carrion. Some others were just bloated and swollen with decay. Some small. Some adult-sized. All dead.

By late afternoon, if his watch was still accurate, he was done and there was now a gap wide enough to allow the rig to pass through. There might be a few more scratches in the paint by the time he'd finished but he'd be on his way with only half a day to make up. That wouldn't be a problem – there'd be no hope of sleep now. The voices wouldn't let him even if he tried.

A half-hour passed before he rolled out. In that time he'd taken some not-so-prescription tablets along with another few slugs from the vodka bottle. He didn't feel awake but he was alive and aware of the road beneath his wheels and some of the pain had died away leaving a kind of numbness that settled in the back of his brain and seeped into his bones. More and more he found his eye roaming towards the scuff made by that high velocity round. It sat on the glass like a bug smear and part of him wanted to wipe it off. He knew it would have to be polished out but that didn't make it any less irritating.

Another drink. He looked to his right. The seat was still empty. He tried to remember some things but nothing was forthcoming. Instead, he could only think about the tarmac up ahead, the greying cloud and the rolling hills somewhere far beyond sight. The green band had gone, if it had ever been there in the first place and all that was left was the hum of the engines beneath him. Soothing at times. At others, downright murderous.

As he passed into Red Deer he realised that the bottle was empty. Evening was coming and the sky, overcast still, turned dark and began to brood over him. It felt like part of the place, a resident, a local who didn't take kindly to strangers in those parts, especially those that drove big trucks filled with dirty bombs.

"Move right along," it seemed to say to him beyond the windscreen. "Your kind ain't welcome here."

"You're damn straight," said Shepherd and then coughed a little. He tasted iron on his tongue and his vision swam. "But I ain't stayin'."

Just then a bleep from the dashboard sounded and it caught him off guard. He looked – the satellite navigation system had sprung into life.

100 MILES TO DESTINATION. PLEASE FOLLOW INSTRUCTIONS TO DESTINATION. TAKE A LEFT...

Reluctantly he obeyed. There wasn't really that much to do to begin with; the road was straight enough and the few junctions he came across he ran given that there was no one around to stop him. For the next seventy miles, he saw no one on the roads or the streets or in any of the suburban homes he passed. He began to wonder if he'd arrived too late, if the end had come and he'd missed it somehow.

"Maybe they all got themselves raptured," he said aloud. "Maybe they're with Jesus now and I'm here to see the End of Days. That'd be just my luck."

"Just keep going, you big bear," said Nat but she sounded far off this time, almost beyond hearing.

"Scout..." he whispered, coughing again. "That's the fucking dog's name."