Adrian Magson - No Help For The Dying

Her mobile phone had split open on impact with the floor, revealing the circuitry board and the battery half out of its mounting. With trembling hands she held the back in place and tried to snap it back on. Damn, her brain was so scrambled she couldn’t remember if it slid or clicked. Too bad; she gripped it hard and heard a solid snick. Then she checked the small screen. It still worked!

She stabbed frantically and waited for what seemed like forever as the connection was made. Somewhere in the distance, she heard a loud crashing noise, then moments later the furious blast of an air-horn.

Palmer was nearing the bottom of the drive, running as hard as he could but knowing he could never catch up. He had burst out of the front door of the mansion in time to see the white van career out of a large garage on the edge of the car park and speed away down the drive. As it turned sideways on, he caught a glimpse of Quine and another man — Meaker or de Haan, he couldn’t be sure — in the front seats. He swore to himself. If only he’d thought to check the garage before entering the house. They must have deliberately locked the gates the way they had to suggest a deserted property and give themselves time to pack up and get clear. Right now it looked as if the strategy was going to work.

Suddenly there was an explosive bang and a tortured shriek of metal ahead of him through the trees. He didn’t need to see what had happened; Quine had hit the gates full-on. As if to add colour to the sense of impending disaster, the air of the drive was hung with the blue haze of exhaust smoke, and the gravelled drive showed deep ruts where Quine had driven the van at a furious pace towards the road, clipping the verge on the way.

Palmer rounded the final bend and saw what was left of the ornate iron gates. The chain and padlock had given way first, but both gates had been ripped apart, mangled and twisted beyond repair. One of the ancient pillars had given way under the impact, leaving slabs of crumpled stone spilled across the driveway. Among the debris was the crushed chrome grill from the van, a sprinkling of broken windscreen glass and a section of plastic bumper, cracked and torn like paper.

Then an engine screamed in protest, followed by the thud-thud-thud of a damaged wheel on tarmac, and Palmer realised the van hadn’t gone far. He skidded past the lodge, knowing he had Quine within his grasp.

Another sound intruded, this one the frantic blare of air-horns, closely followed by the hiss of air-brakes and a squeal of rubber. A huge shadow flashed past the open entrance, a charging hulk in dark green and yellow, dragging behind it a white-blue trail of smoke as the tyres strained to get a grip on the road surface. The horns blasted again, wailing across the surrounding greenery and battering the trees.

Palmer stopped running and watched as the truck, laden with hardcore, thundered down the road and began a steady slide sideways, the driver desperately trying to bring it to a halt. For a split second there was an awful silence; no birds, no engine noise, no squeal of brakes. It was as if all sound was suspended, although it could only have been his own sense of dread at what was about to unfold.

Ahead of it, the white van seemed to get going again just in time, spluttering forward as if it was going to pull clear of the charging monster in time. But it was too late. With what seemed like a last, frantic charge, the truck hit the van, scooping it up on its massive bumpers, carrying it forward with barely a sound before flicking it sideways off the road.

The truck took another two hundred yards to stop, grey smoke billowing from the wheels as the back slid round towards the verge. A scattering of hardcore sprayed off the top of the load and hit the surrounding vegetation like machine-gun fire, and the air-horn died away in a final wail. The van, meanwhile, under the massive impact of the loaded truck’s weight, tore into the trees, ripping through branches and foliage before culminating in another violent crash.

Then silence.

Palmer jogged towards the spot where the van had left the tarmac. There was no need to hurry now. He couldn’t see what damage had been done to the front of the truck cab, although the driver had been able to bring it safely to a stop. But the impact had been considerable. Then the door opened and a stocky figure dropped to the road, looking back with a stunned expression to where the collision had occurred.

Satisfied he was unhurt, Palmer veered off and jumped a ditch, following the trail of smashed branches and gouged earth, littered with bits of metal and broken, tinted glass. A box of Flowing Light pamphlets lay gutted in a patch of thick briar, and a computer terminal lay face up to the sky, the screen broken and disgorging bits of circuitry.

The van had come to rest between two large trees, jammed tight and suspended three feet off the ground. One of the rear wheels was still spinning with a soft grinding noise, and a thin plume of smoke was rising from the exhaust. There was no sound of movement from inside, and no noise from outside. The smell of leaking petrol was very strong.

There was a click as Palmer opened the baton he had used at the arches. He stepped clear of the bodywork and approached the driver’s door. It was badly buckled and revealed a man lying across the wheel, arms flung forward as though hugging the vehicle in a last fond embrace. His legs had merged with a third tree-trunk which had snapped off with the impact, the stump rearing up through the floor where the pedals had been. The man had short, cropped hair, and a pair of rimless glasses hung from one ear, one lens shattered.

Quine. He’d suffered massive damage to the side of his head and body.

Beyond Quine was the bulky shape of de Haan in the passenger seat, his once-smart suit littered with leaves, shattered tree bark and a heavy splattering of blood. Palmer guessed most of it was Quine’s. The pastor seemed unaware of Palmer, too intent on struggling to free himself from his seatbelt while uttering a high-pitched keening sound. But his struggles were hopeless; the belt was pinched hard back against the door pillar by a tree branch as thick as a man’s leg, having penetrated the side panel like a spear and stopping short of de Haan’s body by millimetres. Everywhere there was broken glass and the smell of fuel.

He heard a shout from the road, and turned to see the truck driver hovering nervously at the edge of the trees. He looked stricken with shock but was holding a mobile phone in the air. Palmer ignored him; he guessed the man had called the emergency services but was unwilling to come any closer.

He clambered round to the other side of the van, stepping over broken and twisted saplings and branches. Through the open space that had been the windscreen, he saw de Haan watching him with a malevolent stare while still tugging at the seat belt. The pastor was muttering ceaselessly beneath his breath as if reciting a prayer, small bubbles popping from between his fleshy lips with each word. A trail of pink mucous was running down his chin and staining his shirt collar, and a larger bubble appeared from the side of his nose and blossomed like an obscene flower, pink and vivid, before popping and spraying blood down his cheek.

It was only when Palmer stepped up alongside de Haan that he saw something he had missed from the other side of the van: the tree branch piercing the vehicle’s bodywork and pinning the seatbelt had a secondary arm lower down. This had penetrated even further, pinning de Haan to his seat below the waist. A slick of blood was running down the fat man’s thigh and puddling on the floor, staining it a deep, dark red.

‘Get me out.’ De Haan’s voice was surprisingly clear. His eyes flickered across Palmer’s face, but if he recognised him, he gave no indication. He seemed short of breath, and the colour had drained from his face. ‘Help me, damn you!’ He flailed a pudgy hand against the seat belt, but to no effect. He looked towards Quine for help, and when he saw the man’s open, faded eyes, he struggled even harder, as if aware that death was a mere moment away and would soon embrace him, too.