Rich Hawkins: The Last Plague

“You two in the back okay?”

Magnus gave a lethargic thumbs-up.

“Yeah,” Ralph said. “Fucking hell. What the fuck was that?”

“A horse,” Magnus said. “Did you see it? It was injured.”

“It was all cut up,” said Frank.

The horse, a white mare, had collapsed on the road. The men stood around her. She was still alive. Her back legs were broken.

Frank was gazing at the horse. “I’m sorry.”

The others looked at him.

“It’s not your fault,” said Magnus.

“Look at her,” said Ralph. “Poor girl.”

The mare was making a pathetic mewling sound. Her eyes were bulbous with pain and fear. She buckled and her front legs kicked. The men, apart from Ralph, stepped back.

Something had torn at the horse’s left flank. Several deep cuts. Bones and flesh. Flaps of ragged skin. Blood on the road. The stench of shit and offal lingered in the air.

“Something attacked it,” said Magnus.

“I broke her legs,” said Frank.

“It wasn’t your fault, Frank,” Magnus said. “Nothing you could have done about it.”

“It’s like a wolf or a lion mauled it,” Joel said.

Ralph gave a terse shake of his head. “Not in this country, mate.”

“Might have escaped from a zoo.”

“Shut up,” Frank said. “Both of you.”

“We should put her out of her misery,” said Ralph. “She’s lost too much blood. She’s suffering.”

“You mean kill it?” asked Magnus.

Ralph looked at him, then Frank, and nodded.

Joel was silent.

“I can’t do that,” Magnus said, rubbing a hand over his face.

“You won’t have to,” said Ralph. He crouched, stroked the mare’s neck. “I’ll do it.”

The mare whined. Splintered bone protruded from one of the wounds.

“He’s right,” said Frank. “You sure you can do it, Ralph?”

“I hate seeing animals suffer.”

“It’ll have to be quick. What can we use?”

“Is that crowbar still in the boot?”

Frank nodded. He fetched the crowbar and handed it over.

Ralph stood over the stricken animal. The others watched him. The mare was silent now. He looked into her eyes, raised the crowbar.

“You’ll have to hit her hard,” said Frank. “Horses have thick skulls.”

“Make it quick,” said Magnus.

Ralph hesitated. His eyes were moist. His mouth was a grey bloodless line. His arms shook.

“Get it over and done with,” said Joel. “Quickly.”

The horse made a pained sound.

The crowbar sagged in Ralph’s hands. “I can’t do it. I can’t kill her.”

“Come on, mate,” said Frank. “It’s better this way.”

Ralph glanced at him, raised the crowbar, but he faltered again, and stepped away, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. Can’t do it.”

Frank took the crowbar. He couldn’t look into the mare’s eyes so he closed his own.

He raised the crowbar with both hands and held his breath.

The horse’s breathing was very slow.

Opened his eyes.

“Sorry. I haven’t got it in me.”

Frank offered the crowbar to Magnus and Joel. They shook their heads, looked away. Ralph turned away. His shoulders sagged. He stared at his feet.

“There’s nothing we can do,” Frank said, to himself more than the others. He, Magnus and Joel returned to the car to check the damage.

Ralph stayed with the horse and watched over her until her eyes glazed over and the rise and fall of her chest faltered.

He stroked her mane, whispering softly, until she died.

They tried to move the mare to the roadside, but she was too heavy, so they were forced to leave her on the road. Ralph got blood on his hands. He wiped them on the grass.

“You okay, Ralph?” asked Frank.

“Yeah, fucking dandy.”

“First the abandoned car,” said Magnus. “Then the farmhouse. Now this.”

“And what do we do about the Corsa?” said Joel. He sat down by the car. “Does anyone know how to fix it?”

“You must be joking,” said Frank. “The radiator’s shot to pieces. The bonnet’s fucked. The grille is broken. We need a mechanic.”

“We need several mechanics,” said Ralph.

Frank patted the Corsa’s roof. “We’ll have to walk to Wishford. Get some help there. We still need to report the abandoned car as well.”

“You want to leave your car here?” asked Joel.

“I don’t see much option. Our phones aren’t working. I’ve tried calling the RAC. Got any other ideas?”

“We could stay here until someone drives past.”

“No chance. I don’t really fancy spending the next few hours in the middle of nowhere waiting for another car to come along.”

Joel shrugged. “We might get lucky.”

“We might get arse-raped,” said Ralph, unhelpfully.

“How many cars have you seen along this stretch of road since we left the farm?” said Frank. “Do you want to wait all day and night?”

Joel fumbled with his mobile. “But it’s a long walk to Wishford.”

Frank began to unload their bags. “If you’re so keen to stay with the car, you’re welcome to look after it on your own.”

“No, that’s okay.”

“Good. Carry your own bag. Let’s get going.”

An hour later they were less than a mile from Wishford.

Church bells were ringing. Smoke was rising from the village.

Joel’s mouth twitched. “Is there a wedding? Is someone’s house on fire?”

“Weird,” Ralph muttered, scratching his face with the end of the crowbar.

“During World War Two,” Frank said, “church bells were to be rung if the Nazis invaded.”

Magnus shot him a puzzled look. “Are you trying to say that the Germans have landed?”

Frank didn’t answer.

Ralph was tired. He was a strong man, but he had no stamina. His fitness routine consisted of having sex with ugly women and walking to the pub, usually on the same night but in a different order. Sweat dripped from his brow. He gulped water from a bottle.

The image of the dead horse was burned into his mind. He hated himself for not putting the horse out of its misery. He looked at the crowbar and wondered if he could ever use it to kill a living thing.

He wished the bells would stop ringing.

They came across another house. Locked, silent and empty. No car in the driveway. Maybe whoever lived there was on holiday.

Ahead of them, a road-sign concreted into the grass verge: WISHFORD.

They entered the village.

“At last,” Joel said. “My feet are killing me. Are there any public telephones around here?”

“What about a mechanic’s workshop?” Magnus asked.

“Where’s the nearest police station?” said Frank.

“Horsham, probably,” said Ralph.

“Typical.”

Rows of houses. Trimmed lawns. Expensive cars parked in gravel driveways. Trees and pruned hedges. Rows of flowers in bloom.

A deserted place. But things had been left behind.

A dropped handbag on a driveway, its contents spilled; a bicycle left by the side of the road, its front wheel spinning slowly; a child’s red baseball cap.

They passed one house with its front door open; Ralph noticed shadowy shapes huddled just out of focus. He didn’t tell the others just in case he had imagined them.

Joel said, “Something is very wrong.”

Ralph grunted. “Nice one, Miss Marple.”

The bells stopped ringing. Throbbing silence. Ralph’s eardrums resonated in the sudden absence of sound. The anticipation of bad things. A feeling of dread. He swallowed hard.

A shriek echoed down the street and around the houses.

Magnus’s eyes widened. “Jesus Christ, what was that?”