Free The Chop Shop by Christopher Heffernan Page B

heart. He
stood up, shaking, and stepped away from the fire. People gathered by the front
doors, watching the vehicle burn with mouths agape.
    “Are you hurt?”
Samantha said?
    He shook his
head and moved behind the cover of a plastic tree. Samantha looked away from
the carnage. Her face turned pale as a trail of blood leaked from her left
nostril.
    “Your nose is
bleeding,” he said.
    Samantha pulled
a tissue from her pocket, but she was too slow to stop a drop of blood staining
her white shirt; it left a long, blotted line from collar to breast.
    “What the hell
is going on? I knew her, she worked the desk in front of me. Why would somebody
blow her up?”
    His mind flashed
back to the memory of his old station disappearing in an explosion. “I don't
know. Somebody will have to find out. There's cameras up there trained on the
car park all day, every day. Either that car came in here rigged, or somebody
planted the bomb in full view.”
    “I have to tell
her family.”
    She wandered off
in a daze, head bowed, one hand clutching her brow. He watched her go, and then
looked down at his trembling hand; the tremble ran the length of his arm and
down his entire body.
    Michael went
back to his car and silenced the alarm. He got down on the ground, produced his
pocket torch and slid underneath the vehicle. He flashed the light about.
Nothing. His mind raced, breathing becoming shallower.
    A pair of feet
clad in combat boots stopped by his legs. “You okay?” the man said.
    Michael crawled
out into the open. The policeman was dressed in full body armour and combat
gear. He raised the visor on his helmet. “Hey, I asked if you were you okay.”
    He stood up.
“I'm fine. You've got tactical mirrors in the armoury, right? For checking
corners?”
    “Yeah, we've got
them.”
    “You might want
to start handing them out. People will need to check underneath their cars.”
    The policeman
looked over his shoulder at the burning wreck.

Chapter 6.
     
    Michael drove to
Croydon. Concrete buildings rose up all around him, some still scorched and
ruined from the war. The others were empty now the workers had gone home for the
night. Handfuls of people milled about the streets beneath flashing lights and
advertisement displays.
    A police fire
team stood watch behind concrete barriers with their armoured personnel
carrier. He turned left at the sign for the Acel Clinique and drove through the
security checkpoint with its electric fence and razor wire. The hospital was
five stories of grey brick and multiple smaller buildings spread across the
interior of the compound, most of them abandoned and in disrepair.
    Michael drove
through dozens of vacant parking spaces and parked close to the main building.
He placed his police identity on the dashboard and made it ten meters from the
car before he changed his mind and bought a ticket instead. Dim yellow light
spilled from the hospital's main entrance.
    The doors slid
open for him as he approached. Empty seats filled the waiting area, and just
beyond them was the reception desk, where the receptionist had her back turned
so she could watch the television mounted on the wall. The sound of his
footsteps on the hard floor drew her attention.
    She pivoted in
her chair and stood up. “Do you have an appointment?
    The
receptionist's left arm hung limp from the shoulder. Her hand was the colour of
prosthetic plastic. She looked past him with one wide eye, never blinking, as
the other focused on his face. She must have been about his age.
    “Yes, with Nurse
Becker. My appointment was for tomorrow, but I phoned ahead earlier and was
told I could be seen tonight, instead. The name is Michael Ward.”
    The receptionist
glanced down at the computer and typed away with her right hand. She paused
every few seconds to hit the backspace key, pressing her lips together, part
frustration, part determination.
    “Ah,” she said.
“That will be on-”
    “It's okay, I'm
a regular,” Michael said. He