The Chop Shop by Christopher Heffernan Read Free Book Online

faeces and
startling the cats. One of the felines hissed at them.
    Charlie opened a
cupboard door, revealing a rusted hatch. “This goes down into an old fallout
shelter, but it has a secondary exit several buildings down. It'll get you out
of the courtyard and back onto the streets, but you'll have to be quiet. Air
ventilation is bad down there, so don't stay too long or you might suffocate,
and don't take the wrong door, otherwise it'll take you straight out into the
sewers.”
    The stench of
something rotten crawled up Michael's nose. He gagged and covered his mouth,
managing only a small nod in response. Charlie handed him another glow stick.
    “What station
are you at?”
    “Richmond,”
Michael said through his hand. He held his breath, cracked the glow stick and
climbed down the rusty ladder. The brickwork scraped at the elbows of his coat.
He looked up when he reached the bottom.
    “I'll give you a
call sometime; we can have a pint. Be seeing you, mate,” Charlie said. He
slammed the hatch shut and sent a thunderous echo down the shaft.
    Michael probed
the darkness with his glow stick; there was a dead rat by his foot. His hands
trembled. The air felt impossibly hot, as he loosened his tie and unbuttoned
the top of his shirt, trying to force himself to take a step forward.
    If he shut his
eyes, he could almost believe he was back in Berlin, wading through stinking
sewers contaminated with nerve agents and filled with bloated corpses and the
hordes of crawling rats that fed off them. A sound echoed off the concrete walls
further down the tunnel.
    He reached for
his gun with a clammy hand and eased a finger onto the trigger guard. The urge
to crawl back up the shaft overwhelmed him. His breath came in short gasps,
until he put one foot forward, and then another and another.
    The shape of the
shelter door came forward out of the darkness, tinted green by the glow stick
and left wide open. Three sets of bunk beds lined the concrete walls, in decay
and untouched since the war. Old pillows still gave shape to one of the blankets.
    He stepped on an
empty ration pack. A kitchen lay beyond the living area and just past that a
bathroom, big enough for one person at a time. Between them was the exit. His
heart raced quicker, followed by a sting of pain in his chest.
    The bolts on the
door wouldn't shift. He pulled harder, sweat dripping down his temples. He
holstered his gun, tossed the glow stick to the floor and tried with both
hands. Somebody grabbed him from behind.
    The man's flesh
was blistered and felt like leather. He tightened his hold until he began to
crush Michael's windpipe, and the stench of a bad tooth escaped his mouth as he
wheezed. Michael pushed backwards, connecting his skull with the man's nose.
    Cartilage
cracked. The man's hold suddenly went slack. He fell backwards, struck the wall
and grunted. Second degree burns had ruined his face, and the glow stick turned
him green. He came at Michael again with a fire axe in hand, baring his chipped
teeth like a feral animal. Most of his lips were gone from burn injuries.
    He swung the
axe, only to miss; his strike hit the door hard enough to cause a spark.
Michael slammed him against the door. Several teeth broke free of his gums, as
his blood splattered across the metal.
    Michael spun him
around, fished for the plastic ballpoint pen in his pocket and plunged its tip
through the man's eye. The pen snapped in half before he could bury it further
than the midpoint.
    The man let out
a rasping scream that echoed all the way back down to the hatch. He convulsed
from the pain and sank to the floor. Michael picked up the axe. Its head was
covered in dried, crusty blood and notched where it had cut through bone.
    He kicked the
man on his side and split his head in half where the jaw joined the skull. The
axe slipped from his sweaty hands, and he backed away, light-headed, until his
spine touched the opposite wall. His foot knocked something under the bunk;
human bones