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wall.
    Memories of the drive come back to me now. Bright and hard but somehow broken and disconnected. Miles of road cutting through fields and woodland. The nailed boys. Blue sky. Torched bodies, crisp as burnt toast. Lots of birds. A sports car burning in the middle of the road like a gigantic firework, pumping out sparks and smoke. The truck crushing through bushes at the road side as I swerved to avoid it.
    I drove aimlessly for a couple of hours, circling the same few miles of countryside. Every so often I’d pass the hotel with the nailed boys. At one point I even found myself heading back into Doncaster.
    I passed a school playing field where perhaps three hundred adults tore pieces from figures that looked like scarecrows. I turned the truck, flattening a road sign, then headed back into the countryside.
    Ten minutes later I parked the truck in a field beneath some trees.
    The truck contained about ten thousand bottles of spring water. HAMPOLE PRIORY SPRING sang the labels. At least I wasn’t going to die of thirst. In the cab I found the driver’s plastic lunchbox.
    I remember feeling unreasonably bitter that whatever had happened to the truck’s driver hadn’t happened sooner. The sandwiches were gone leaving two apples and a large pork pie. The pie had a half moon shape missing from it where the trucker had taken a huge, slobbering bite.
    The burst of anger over something as trivial as the pork pie actually settled me down mentally. Here was something I could concentrate my irritation on. Ten thousand bottles of frigging water and a part-masticated pie. Shit to the dead kids decorating the landscape, here was something I could handle. I could even see the guy’s teethmark slicing through the pink meat. I strode round the truck, kicking the wheels and swearing.
    Then I sat on the grass, wrapped my arms round my knees and shook for ten minutes.
    After that I didn’t feel so crazy any more. I picked off the bits of crust and meat that had made contact with the trucker’s lips and tongue, ate the pie, then drank water – lots of it. Fear dehydrates you.
    I didn’t know why I didn’t think of it earlier but I tried the truck’s radio. Usually you get the crack and pop of dozens of stations as you spin the dial. All I got from FM was a hiss. On AM I picked up three stations. One played uninterrupted classical music. Another played old disco songs back to back with no DJ. Eventually the music stopped to be replaced by a sound like an electric razor.
    Station three was more promising. I tuned in to hear a single word ‘… message.’ Then came orchestral versions of popular hymns. For five minutes I sat in the truck, swinging one leg out the door, listening to
Hills Of The North Rejoice
before it suddenly faded. Then came the voice.
    â€˜You must stay tuned to this station. An important announcement follows this message.’
    All Things Bright And Beautiful
followed. I waited, actually gripping the steering wheel until my hands ached. This was it. I’d find out what was happening. And what I should do next. Again came the rapid music fade-out.
    â€˜You must stay tuned to this station. An important announcement follows this message.’
    I waited. More music. Then came the same message. I punched the steering wheel, swore and waited some more.
    For an hour I sat listening to the shit-awful music and the automated voice repeating the same few words. In the end I switched it off and went for a piss against a tree.
    The sun was touching the horizon when I realised I’d have to find somewhere to sleep. It was tempting to sleep in the cab. But a three-ton chunk of iron the colour of day-glo tangerines in the middle of the countryside shines like a moon in a midnight sky. I didn’t want to wake with faces pressed to the windows.
    Carrying two bottles of Hampole Priory Well water and the trucker’s apples, I headed through the trees to where the land