Blood and Ashes by Matt Hilton Page A

little girl was crying, her face as pale as virgin snow. She looked down at the tomcat huddled by her ankles. She stooped and picked it up, and the old tom allowed her to cradle him without complaint. It blinked slowly at me, and I spared a moment to frown back. I’d idly thought that the cat and I had much in common. Well, nine lives would come in very handy.
    Don lifted the assault rifle and used the butt to slam open the plyboard hatch. A draught washed over us; smelling the tang of petroleum I sighed with relief. The hatch had once opened into an anteroom that had since been converted to a garage connected to the side of the house. Brook’s vehicle had been reduced to a tangled burnt-out wreck, so I could only hope that the Reynoldses had been a two-car family.
    Don lifted Beth and her charge through the hatch, followed by Ryan, then there was a moment of pushing and shoving until Don finally went first. He squeezed through the gap, his big body defying the dimensions. Millie turned back to me. Her eyes flashed before she swung round and went through the gap more easily.
    The door shuddered behind me. The lock was already burst from my injudicious entry. My weight held the attacker back, but that would only last for so long. Hearing muffled voices, I knew that I didn’t have much time left on earth if I didn’t get out now.
    I ducked across the room expecting to be cut apart by bullets, or ripped into chunks by a frag grenade. Instead I made it to the hatch, just as the door burst inward. I caught the flash of a face – a crazy pattern of tattoos up one side, framing a pinched yellow eye. Then I was through the hatch, thighs bumping painfully on the edge as I flung myself bodily into the garage beyond. Ignoring the pain, I lurched back to throw the hatch closed again. Once more I saw the tattooed face, and caught the glare of hatred its bearer shot at me; but my own return look was equally ferocious. To the right was an old cabinet, like the Welsh dresser that had been in my parents’ house when I was a boy. Adrian had reclaimed the old item of furniture to hold the tools he used when he tinkered with his vehicles.
    Without urging, Don joined me and together we muscled the dresser in front of the hatch, just as the pounding began on the other side.
    I would have cheered if I’d had time, but Millie was already helping the two children and the cat into the back seat of Adrian’s vehicle: a minivan that he’d undoubtedly used to transport the kids to and from school. Please, I prayed, let the keys be in the ignition.
    They were, and I started the minivan even as Don scrambled into the passenger seat. I revved the engine, looked at the closed door. It was a tin-sheet roller shutter. No time to open it. ‘Everyone . . . get your heads down,’ I said through gritted teeth. Then I released the brake and the minivan bolted forward.
    The door resisted the onslaught, but couldn’t withstand it for long. The minivan burst through, the buckling door gouging stripes in the paintwork. The wheels sent up plumes of gravel and shells, and the vehicle slewed to the side before I got it under control. Ahead of us were the flaming carcasses of the Audi and Lexus, and I had to yank on the steering to avoid them. I caught a glimpse of Adrian’s body burning like a flare between them and hoped that the kids weren’t looking. ‘Keep down,’ I yelled again. Not to ensure that the children didn’t have nightmares – it was already too late for that – but because the bird-like man was rushing towards the minivan lifting a rifle. I’d jammed my guns inside with me, but had no way to shoot the man, not without letting go of the steering wheel, and I saw that Don was equally hindered. Our only chance was to keep going, trust to speed and hope that the man was a lousy shot.
    The engine was roaring too hard for me to hear the shouted command, but I saw the man respond. The gun dipped away, and the man just watched in futile fury as