BooksBarbecue
Back The Hollows
Chapters (77)
  1. Front Cover
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright Page
  4. Dedication
  5. PART I
  6. 1.
  7. 2.
  8. 3.
  9. 4.
  10. 5.
  11. 6.
  12. 7.
  13. 8.
  14. PART II
  15. 9.
  16. 10.
  17. 11.
  18. 12.
  19. 13.
  20. 14.
  21. 15.
  22. 16.
  23. 17.
  24. 18.
  25. 19.
  26. 20.
  27. 21.
  28. 22.
  29. 23.
  30. 24.
  31. 25.
  32. 26.
  33. 27.
  34. 28.
  35. 29.
  36. 30.
  37. 31.
  38. 32.
  39. 33.
  40. 34.
  41. 35.
  42. 36.
  43. PART III
  44. 37.
  45. 38.
  46. 39.
  47. 40.
  48. 41.
  49. 42.
  50. 43.
  51. 44.
  52. 45.
  53. 46.
  54. 47.
  55. 48.
  56. 49.
  57. 50.
  58. 51.
  59. 52.
  60. 53.
  61. 54.
  62. 55.
  63. 56.
  64. 57.
  65. 58.
  66. 59.
  67. 60.
  68. 61.
  69. 62.
  70. 63.
  71. 64.
  72. 65.
  73. PART IV
  74. 66.
  75. 67.
  76. 68.
  77. Acknowledgements

“Laura, you just got shot in the chest.” Milly Emmanuel’s voice. Liz gritted her teeth and clenched her fists; she’d like to paste that holier-than-thou little cow one. But this wasn’t the time.

“It was just a crap little .22.” And that was Laura Caddick, that sour-faced old boot with her slapper of a daughter. “He was always posing with that thing like he was Rambo, but it wouldn’t stop an angry squirrel.”

Paul. She meant Paul, with his silly little rifle. And was. That meant Paul was gone. Well, he’d been her son, but he’d always been a liability, sneaky little shit that he was. And he couldn’t be left alone with anything that had a cunt.

“A bullet’s a fucking bullet, Laura.”

“You said me rib stopped it.”

“Well, yeah. But –”

“We’ve got worse than cracked ribs to worry about, eh?”

Milly Emmanuel sighed. “Fine.”

Frank. What about Frank?

“Least we don’t have to worry about those scumbags any more,” said Laura. A pause. “Sorry.”

“S’all right,” said a small thin high voice.

Jess.

Fucking traitor, thought Liz, fucking Judas bitch. And then what Laura had said sank in. Not just Paul: Frank, too. She wanted to howl but stayed still. She wasn’t armed: they’d taken her guns.

Footsteps came closer. “Wanna look?” said Laura Caddick.

A long pause, then a faint sigh. “No,” said Jess. The footsteps moved away.

Judas. Judas Jess.

Liz waited till she was as sure as she could be they’d gone away, then eased a hand into her pocket and fumbled for her keys. She pulled them out – they were sticky with blood – then peered down in search of the one that started the tractor. When she’d found it she gripped it tight. She’d have one chance and would have to be fast. She shifted her legs slightly. There was pain, but they moved.

Deep breaths.

Then count to three and –

Liz flung back the sheet left-armed, biting back a yell as the wound in her arm sent a bolt of white pain up her neck and into her eye, then shoved her feet down against the pavement, boosting herself up the wall. A woman screamed – some stuck-up cow shitting her pants thinking they had the living dead to deal with now too – and Liz made a staggering run for the tractor, clawing at the doorframe. Her boots crunched in broken glass – it pricked her thighs and arse as she collapsed into the seat.

“Get her,” someone yelled. Liz shoved the key into the ignition. “Stop her!”