Also, he noticed, whatever the red stuff was that had run from the two marks was not flowing so freely now. He obviously hadn’t done as much damage as he’d first thought. He nodded to himself and turned away from the marks.
As he did the fork lift shot forward as if fired from a cannon.
Even if Reed had seen what was coming it’s unlikely he’d have been able to avoid it.
The left hand fork slammed into his chest, snapping bone effortlessly and driving him backwards, slamming him against the wall as it tore through his upper body. He felt a monstrous combination of severe pain and breathlessness as the fork ruptured his lung and ripped through his chest, exploding from his back just below one shoulder blade, the impact lifting him off his feet and smashing him into the wall.
The fork tore into the concrete behind him, driven deeper by the continued forward momentum of the truck itself, the engine of which was revving madly now, filling his ears along with his own screams. He clawed helplessly at the fork that was skewering him, aware that his own blood was spouting warmly over the metal prong and making it slippery. Not that he’d have been able to free himself anyway because the truck itself was still shuddering as it revved, smoke rising from the rear wheels as the entire machine now shook and vibrated as it continued to try and move forward, the fork digging deeper into the concrete beyond Reed’s torn body.
Like an insect pinned to a board Reed hung there, impaled on the fork, his legs kicking madly, his feet a couple of inches from the blood spattered concrete floor. After less than half a minute even that perfunctory movement stopped as his body went into a series of small shudders and his attempts to drag himself free stopped. Blood loss and shock overtook him rapidly. The ground around him was puddled with crimson now, gouts of it still spurting from the wound that had wrought so much damage. When he tried to suck in a breath there was a rattling sound as the inhalation rattled inside his torn lungs and blood was pumping from his mouth, spilling down his chin and muffling the sounds he was trying weakly to make.
The engine of the fork lift had ceased; the only sound in the underground car park was the ever present rumble of the pneumatic drill. But it was joined suddenly by something else. A shout of horror and surprise. Then the sound of frantic footsteps as others ran towards the scene of carnage. But Alan Reed heard none of those other sounds. His last thought had been of his daughter. And then, there had been nothing at all.
SEVENTEEN
The doorbell played ‘Oh Susanna’ when it was pressed.
Not a simple two tone chime or a buzzer. No, not this doorbell it played a tune. Jessica Anderson stood beside the door and listened to the electronic anthem as she waited for the black painted barrier to be opened. She took a last drag on her cigarette, tossed the butt under the nearby hedge and dug hastily in her pocket for the pack of mints she kept there. She stuffed one into her mouth to cover the odour of tobacco and continued to wait for the door to be opened.
She was about to press the button again when there was movement on the other side and she heard several locks and bolts being undone all to the accompaniment of low muttering. Jess smiled, the gesture broadening when the door was finally opened.
‘Hello, Mum,’ Jess said and stepped across the threshold.
The diminutive woman who embraced her was a little over five feet tall and Jess had to stoop slightly to hug her. Margaret Anderson held her as tightly as her thin arms would allow and didn’t seem to want to let go. When she finally did she beamed at Jess and patted her shoulders.
‘Come in, dear,’ she said, warmly, pushing open the door to the sitting room.
Jess made her way in, moving past some framed photos of deceased relatives and a sign that proclaimed GOD BLESS THIS HOUSE.
Once inside the small but welcoming room she
As he did the fork lift shot forward as if fired from a cannon.
Even if Reed had seen what was coming it’s unlikely he’d have been able to avoid it.
The left hand fork slammed into his chest, snapping bone effortlessly and driving him backwards, slamming him against the wall as it tore through his upper body. He felt a monstrous combination of severe pain and breathlessness as the fork ruptured his lung and ripped through his chest, exploding from his back just below one shoulder blade, the impact lifting him off his feet and smashing him into the wall.
The fork tore into the concrete behind him, driven deeper by the continued forward momentum of the truck itself, the engine of which was revving madly now, filling his ears along with his own screams. He clawed helplessly at the fork that was skewering him, aware that his own blood was spouting warmly over the metal prong and making it slippery. Not that he’d have been able to free himself anyway because the truck itself was still shuddering as it revved, smoke rising from the rear wheels as the entire machine now shook and vibrated as it continued to try and move forward, the fork digging deeper into the concrete beyond Reed’s torn body.
Like an insect pinned to a board Reed hung there, impaled on the fork, his legs kicking madly, his feet a couple of inches from the blood spattered concrete floor. After less than half a minute even that perfunctory movement stopped as his body went into a series of small shudders and his attempts to drag himself free stopped. Blood loss and shock overtook him rapidly. The ground around him was puddled with crimson now, gouts of it still spurting from the wound that had wrought so much damage. When he tried to suck in a breath there was a rattling sound as the inhalation rattled inside his torn lungs and blood was pumping from his mouth, spilling down his chin and muffling the sounds he was trying weakly to make.
The engine of the fork lift had ceased; the only sound in the underground car park was the ever present rumble of the pneumatic drill. But it was joined suddenly by something else. A shout of horror and surprise. Then the sound of frantic footsteps as others ran towards the scene of carnage. But Alan Reed heard none of those other sounds. His last thought had been of his daughter. And then, there had been nothing at all.
SEVENTEEN
The doorbell played ‘Oh Susanna’ when it was pressed.
Not a simple two tone chime or a buzzer. No, not this doorbell it played a tune. Jessica Anderson stood beside the door and listened to the electronic anthem as she waited for the black painted barrier to be opened. She took a last drag on her cigarette, tossed the butt under the nearby hedge and dug hastily in her pocket for the pack of mints she kept there. She stuffed one into her mouth to cover the odour of tobacco and continued to wait for the door to be opened.
She was about to press the button again when there was movement on the other side and she heard several locks and bolts being undone all to the accompaniment of low muttering. Jess smiled, the gesture broadening when the door was finally opened.
‘Hello, Mum,’ Jess said and stepped across the threshold.
The diminutive woman who embraced her was a little over five feet tall and Jess had to stoop slightly to hug her. Margaret Anderson held her as tightly as her thin arms would allow and didn’t seem to want to let go. When she finally did she beamed at Jess and patted her shoulders.
‘Come in, dear,’ she said, warmly, pushing open the door to the sitting room.
Jess made her way in, moving past some framed photos of deceased relatives and a sign that proclaimed GOD BLESS THIS HOUSE.
Once inside the small but welcoming room she
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