The Chop Shop by Christopher Heffernan Read Free Book Online Page A

stripped of skin, muscle and flesh.
    The sweat on his
skin felt as cold as ice. He picked up the gun, holstered it with trembling
hands and tried again to open the door. The bolts gave way. Green light crept
into the corridor and revealed a pair of doors, which somebody had labelled
with white chalk. He opened the one on the right and found himself in another
ladder shaft.
    Michael moved
faster, unable to resist the urge to escape any longer. He climbed the ladder,
catching his feet on the iron rungs. The hatch was locked. Panic set in. He
clung to the ladder with one hand and used his other to fiddle with the locks.
He shook violently.
    The smell of
burning meat hung in the air, as he opened the hatch. Michael padded across the
shop floor. Homeless people huddled around their bin fires, one cooking a trio
of dead rats on a metal skewer. His shoe crunched glass beneath it.
    They looked up
at him, saw the gun holstered on his hip and raised their hands. Michael
flashed them his police ID. A woman ran past and into the room he'd just come
from. She bolted the door shut. The others remained paralysed by the sight of
him, eyes wide, mouths hanging open.
    He stepped
through the broken window of the chemist and onto the street. Shouts and
laughter came from around the corner; the skinheads beat at the gate. Michael
ran down the street, pausing at the corner to make sure nobody followed, and
went back to his car.
    The air felt
colder now. He shivered. It took him three attempts to get the keys to fit the
lock. He fumbled with the handle until it opened, started the engine and hit
the accelerator pedal so hard the tires squealed.

Chapter 4.
     
    Michael passed
several fortified communities on his way north. Razor wire topped concrete
walls patrolled by private military contractors, and snipers sat watch on the
tallest buildings. It was late afternoon now, and school children walked the
streets. Some had uniforms, others wore tattered rags and shoes kept together
with electrical tape. Assurer police forces watched from their vehicles.
    He tried to
forget about the fallout shelter, but it kept coming back to him. The thought
turned him cold, and his pulse began to race. He looked terrible in the rear
view mirror, but he felt even worse inside.
    Warehouses and
factories emerged out of the darkness ahead. Their security fences had turned
to rust, and there were now countless holes where people had cut their way
through. He parked on the pavement.
    It was empty
here, devoid of life, save for the black bird perched on the fence, nearly as
big as his head. The bird watched him with beady eyes as he passed. He felt the
gust of cold wind against his skin.
    Michael went
through a gap that had been cut in the fence, stepping over rubble and
shattered bricks. He shivered. A sound came from behind the security hut ahead.
Click, rattle, click; an upturned bicycle, pink, and just the right size for a
child. Part of its metal frame had melted and fused with the rubble. Its
remaining wheel spun backwards in the wind.
    Click, rattle,
click.
    Yellow sheets of
paper drifted on the wind from the security hut. They blew across the debris
until finally settling amongst a pile of human bones. Five buildings still
stood, though one was mostly ruins, and beyond them he saw the riverbank.
    Michael found
himself wanting to turn back. He remembered the cannibal in the shelter and
wondered if there were more like him lurking here in the ruins. He removed his
.45 from its holster and disengaged the safety. The shakes had come back.
    He found the
door to the first building lying in two pieces beside the entrance. Patches of
rust grew where the paint had flaked away. He went inside. Empty tables and
crumbling machinery. Michael plucked a flyer from one of the cork notice
boards; fire safety around munitions. He tossed it away, catching an unused
shell casing with his foot as he walked on.
    Part of the roof
had caved in. Twinkling lights and neon advertisements