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    Neil Hunter's THE TOUCH OF HELL
    Neil Hunter's THE TOUCH OF HELL
    Neil Hunter's THE TOUCH OF HELL
    Ebook171 pages2 hours

    Neil Hunter's THE TOUCH OF HELL

    By Neil Hunter

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    About this ebook

    The village of Shepthorne England wasn't being gripped, but rather strangled by a winter's blanket of heavy snow and Arctic temperatures. The trouble began innocently enough with a massive pile-up of autos on frozen roads leading to and from the village. Then, from the sky, a military transport plane with its top secret cargo of devastation crashed down towards the center of the village. Hell was just beginning to touch Shepthorne and its unsuspecting citizens...

     

    Now the military has come in to isolate and retrieve the plane's cargo and any villagers are expendable in order to keep its contents a secret from the rest of the world.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCaliber Books
    Release dateOct 18, 2023
    ISBN9798223296508
    Neil Hunter's THE TOUCH OF HELL
    Author

    Neil Hunter

    Neil Hunter is, in fact, the prolific Lancashire-born writer Michael R. Linaker. As Neil Hunter, Mike wrote two classic western series, BODIE THE STALKER and JASON BRAND. Under the name Richard Wyler he produced four stand-alone westerns, INCIDENT AT BUTLER’S STATION, THE SAVAGE JOURNEY, BRIGHAM’S WAY and TRAVIS.

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      Book preview

      Neil Hunter's THE TOUCH OF HELL - Neil Hunter

      The Touch of Hell book cover

      The Touch of Hell

      Neil Hunter

      Caliber Books

      Also from NEIL HUNTER/MICHAEL R. LINAKER

      CADE Series

      CADE: Darksiders

      CADE: Hardcase

      CADE: Firestreak

      SCORPION Series

      SCORPION

      SCORPION: Second Generation

      THE TOUCH OF HELL

      Neil Hunter books

      THE TOUCH OF HELL

      Copyright 2023 Eagle One Media, Inc.

      Original Copyright 1981 Michael R. Linaker

      All Rights Reserved.

      No part of this book may be copied or retransmitted without the express written permission of the publisher and copyright holder. Limited use of excerpts may be used for journalistic or review purposes. Any similarities to individuals either living or dead is purely coincidental and unintentional except where fair use laws apply.

      For further information visit the Caliber Comics website:

      www.calibercomics.com

      Cover Art by Dilip Patole

      CAUSE

      Chapter 1

      The snow had been falling steadily since early the previous evening. It had been a heavy fall, constant throughout the night, and by the early hours of the following morning it lay feet thick on the ground. Even as the grey dawn began to break the temperature dropped, adding freezing conditions to the already bleak weather. Bitter winds swept in from the northeast, pushing the snow into deep, curving drifts. The weight of layered snow began to put stress on the branches of trees, rooftops, even causing telephone cables to sag. With the onset of the freeze, standing vehicles became encased in solid sheets of ice. The contents of radiators and engine-blocks froze, the expanding water bursting rubber hoses and even the cores of metal radiators. Road surfaces, carpeted with snow, turned to deadly strips of ice.

      ◆◆◆

      Traffic began to build up from around 6 a.m. onwards. It was a Monday. The first day of a new working week, and the roads were shortly to be invaded by a stream of both commercial and private vehicles. Driving conditions were hazardous. The roads presented treacherous challenges to the drivers who ventured on to them. Low temperatures caused problems for windscreen wipers and interior heaters. Driving became a test of skill and a trial of patience—both were in short supply.

      On the motorway a series of minor accidents created delaying holdups. Drivers were unable to move off again after stopping, wheels spinning on the hard-packed, frozen snow. Others were reluctant to stop in case they found themselves in similar circumstances and tried to weave their way past obstructions. More often than not these tactics caused further stoppages.

      Frustrations led to anger—anger to impulsive reactions. Flashing speed-restrictions were ignored as the stream of southbound vehicles rolled on. Speed was increased and maintained.

      A blue Marina, travelling in the center lane, swung out as the driver spotted what he thought was a gap in the fast lane. His windows were badly misted and he failed to see the articulated container lorry moving along the outer lane. The front bumper of the tractor unit smashed into his offside rear wing. Metal buckled. Ripped. The mass of the articulated vehicle drove relentlessly forward. The Marina spun. Out of control. Already beginning to tilt. The nearside front tire burst under the pressure, allowing the wheel’s metal rim to dig into the surface of the motorway. It held just long enough to allow the weight of the lorry to roll it on its side. From there its own bulk did the rest. Dropping over on to its roof the Marina began to drift across the motorway. Trailing a stream of sparks in its wake it ploughed into the mass of vehicles around it. A Volkswagen tried to avoid the hurtling machine—the driver simply jamming on his brakes—and created yet another hazard. The Volkswagen skidded, clipping the rear of a new Jaguar. Within seconds there was a domino effect as vehicle after vehicle became involved.

      ◆◆◆

      The motorway came to a shuddering, wrenching halt. At the head of the long tailback of vehicles, a mangled, twisted clutch of metal and glass. Of rubber and plastic and human flesh. The grey snow was rainbowed by spilt oil and antifreeze, diesel and petrol. And dappled with the fresh gleam of blood. Stalling engines rattled, then faded into coughing silence.

      From the depths of the crushed vehicles a man began to moan. Nearby someone screamed. The sound was high, wavering, and it was difficult to tell whether it issued from man or woman. Yet another, as awareness returned, felt the cruel pain of his terrible injuries. He was trapped in a web of buckled, sheared metal, unable to move. But he was able to see the extent of his wounds. Forced to lie helpless as his lifeblood spurted and pulsed from the mutilated flesh.

      Somewhere, lost in the remains of a crushed vehicle, a radio played on. The breezy, unceasing flow of words from the disc-jockey, interrupted by the odd record, drifted out over the scene of chaotic devastation.

      ◆◆◆

      Jenny Morrish peered through the misted windscreen, impatience clouding her pretty face. Ahead of her three solid lanes of traffic faded into the silent curtain of falling snow. Jenny took another glance at her watch. She sighed. Might as well relax, she thought. No way you are going to make that appointment now, my girl! The delay had already lasted for over half an hour. The indications pointed to a major accident somewhere up ahead. A really bad one judging by the ambulances, recovery trucks and even a fire appliance, that had sped by on the hard shoulder. And the police cars, sirens wailing and lights flashing.

      She leaned forward and craned her neck as she heard the approaching sound of an amplified voice. A police Range Rover appeared, cruising slowly along the hard shoulder. Jenny rolled down her passenger window and listened for a repeat of the message.

      The motorway is completely blocked due to a severe multiple accident. It will be three or four hours before the lanes can be cleared. All traffic is being diverted off the motorway at the Shepthorne exit. If drivers will follow the Shepthorne road they will be able to rejoin the motorway nineteen miles south at Junction 7. The motorway is completely blocked...

      As the Range Rover drifted away Jenny closed the window. She turned on the car’s ignition. The Triumph TR7 burst into life. Ahead of Jenny the lines of traffic began to move. She let out the clutch and the car edged forward, tires slipping a little before they achieved a solid grip.

      The long streams of cars gained a little speed as they spaced out. Jenny settled back in the padded seat, checking that her safety belt was secured, grateful that at least they were now moving.

      ◆◆◆

      Easing into a higher gear Ron Stanly let the heavy Volvo truck roll easily along the inner lane. He reached for the pack of cigarettes on the wide dash-panel and shook one free. He was in the act of lighting it when he spotted the exit markers coming up. Glancing at his watch he swore out loud. He was already way behind on his schedule and now there was this bloody diversion! God knows where he’d end up! He angrily jerked the lever that operated the flasher-lamps, indicating his change of direction. As the truck rolled on to the exit ramp Ron felt the rear wheels drift. He checked the movement and allowed the Volvo to slow as he caught up with the traffic already on the ramp.

      At the bottom of the ramp stood a parked police car. Its flashing roof-lights cast pale bands of orange and red across the snow-covered ground. A police officer, muffled in a thick parka, was directing the traffic on to the road chosen as the diversion route. Ron swung the truck round the curve in the road and reluctantly fell in behind a battered Transit van. He caught a glimpse of a snow-spattered road sign as he eased on to the narrow road: Shepthorne 15 Miles. He groaned softly. Fifteen bloody miles! At the rate the traffic was moving it was going to take a couple of hours to get there! And then there was the run from the village back to the next motorway junction. He banged his fist on the rim of the steering wheel. It was going to take all sodding day! No guarantee he’d get back either with the way the weather was going! Ron was rapidly beginning to wish he’d listened to Doreen. She’d told him to phone in to say he couldn’t make the run because of the weather. Nobody could have argued against that. If he’d taken her advice he would still have been wrapped up in bed with her. She was a great girl—Doreen—a very affectionate girl, and very obliging. A damn sight more fun than being stuck in a line of traffic that was practically stationary, on some unknown little country road, in the middle of a bloody great snowstorm!

      Ahead of him, the Transit jerked to a halt. Ron stood on his brakes and felt the truck shudder. The wheels locked and the Volvo began to slide. It came to a stop with less than an inch to spare. Ron’s momentary alarm faded and wild anger rose in its place. He hurled a stream of choice obscenities at the unseen driver of the Transit. His abuse was wasted, the expletives fading out of existence in the heated confines of the cab. No one would have taken much notice anyway. The kind word and tolerant thought were in short supply that day.

      ◆◆◆

      Mike Sandler replaced the cap on the Thermos flask and placed it on the floor of the car. He took a quick swallow from the cup in his hand and gasped as scalding coffee burned his lower lip.

      Too hot to handle? asked the girl in the passenger seat.

      Mike grinned at her. You know me, Katy, he said. If I get burned I just naturally come back for more.

      The girl glanced up from her notepad. Yes—I had noticed. She leaned across the back of her seat and made a quick adjustment to the radio-transmitter that filled the rear section of the Escort Estate. Slipping a pair of headphones over her thick brown hair she picked up a hand-microphone.

      You still there, Jerry? She smiled at the reply that came over the headphones. Well put it away, love, and switch on your little recorder. Ready? We’re about a mile outside Shepthorne now. No sign of the weather improving at all. Snow still falling very heavily. The road is only just passable. Traffic’s bumper to bumper. Police are having a hell of a job keeping it moving. I’ll try and get a piece talking to one of the top-brass if any of them are around and we can use it on the mid-morning spot. Use what I’ve just given you for the next local news item. If I can set it up in time John can bring me in live for an update on conditions round about ten-thirty. All right, Jerry? What? It’s really lousy out here! Listen, we’re going to drive on now, and see if we can get into Shepthorne. Talk to you then.

      Mike passed a cup of coffee over as Kathy Young removed the headphones. She took it gratefully and stared out through the streaked windscreen.

      Think we can get through? she asked.

      Mike’s answer was to start the car, slip into gear, and swing the Escort off the side of the road in a spray of churned-up snow. Oblivious to the flashing headlights and the blaring horns, he took the car along the right-hand side of the road. Kathy clung to her cup of coffee in sheer desperation.

      "I

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