Of course it’s summer. These stupid jams always happen when the temperature tops thirty Celcius. It’s already been six hours and we haven’t moved an inch. They’re saying on the radio that there’s a six car pile-up at junction seven and a jackknifed lorry at six.
‘We interrupt our regular broadcast to bring you an update on the traffic. Problems continue to build on the M830 following the two incidents at half two, with the recent revelation that the lorry at junction six was carrying an as yet undisclosed chemical that is delaying clean-up. For those trapped between six and seven, I am being told that emergency services will be moving along the hard shoulder to provide water and some kind of food. In other news…’
‘Great… Just what I wanted.’ I switched the stereo over to my phone, letting the sound of Donna Summer’s Hot Stuff lull me to sleep.
A sharp rapping brought me from my doze. Night had apparently fallen from a great height and splattered itself around me. I’d slept through sunset completely.
‘Sir! We’ve got water and food for you. Is there anybody else in the vehicle?’ I was still bleary eyed from my sleep so just mumbled a no.’Very good, Sir. Wind down your window and I’ll pass this through.’ The bloke on the other side of the glass held up a brown paper bag and I was still groggy. I just couldn’t shift the cotton wool that seemed to be clogging my brain. I reached for the handle (I know, manual windows. Some of us are poor, so don’t judge) and the glass scratched its way down.
‘Cheers pal.’ I gratefully accepted the paper bag. Crackling in my hands, I pulled out a cheese sandwich. I didn’t think I was hungry, but my stomach violently disagreed when I saw the roll. I’m fairly sure they could have heard the gurgle in Mexico.
‘Sir, how are you feeling?’ The policeman asked, staring in. Was it just me, or did his face look, wrong?
‘I’m a lot better now I’ve got some food, thanks. What’s happening?’
‘They’re still working on the spill. But nothing can get through because of the issues in the other direction. ‘ Was his voice muffled? I couldn’t see him properly in the dark and he didn’t have a torch. God, that sandwich was so good. ‘Are you feeling any different to normal? Unwell?’
I wasn’t. Though my stomach was still churning. Perhaps he had more sandwiches? If he had any more bags. But he didn’t. ‘I’m fine, just dozy.’
‘Very well Sir. I’ll leave you to it.’ He started walking away, on to the next car. No, wait. He started walking towards the hard shoulder. Was he not bothering with anyone else?
I hate the feeling when a headache starts edging in. A dull ache on the edge of my brain, filtering through the cotton wool. I should probably sleep.
I’m itchy. Itchy, itchy, itchy. Scratch, scratch, scratchy mcscratch. Sounds like a bad DJ. Where did it come from? Where did it go?
Where did it come from Cotton Eye Joe! I’m so funny.
This car’s stupid. Ooo, there’s water on the glass. I can watch it go. Race, little raindrop, race! I want Paul to win.
I can hear something. The other people. Are they screaming? I don’t want screaming. I want, I want, I want sleep.
No, I shouldn’t…
Purple tastes strange. What time is it? Chico time! Ha. No, it’s tooth hurty. My teeth hurt. Why do they ache?
I’m chewing on something. It’s hard. I don’t like it. I’ll spit it out.
Heh, it’s white. And red. And funny. I could laugh at this for days. My tongue feels like it’s too big. Nom nom nom.
Am I crying? My face is wet. I must be crying. My hands are red. I got red hands. Out, damned spot!
Stringy stringy fingers, pulling away. Rips and tears. Rips and tears. They’re pulling away, I can’t hold anything. It’s raining blood.
I need to go now. Tinkerbell called and said it’s time to go to Neverland. Toodles. Tatty bye. Tata.
Following the tragic events of 12th June, an official inquest has been rendered into the disaster.
Preliminary reports show that the problems were caused by an inability to render assistance. The chemical, Oscar-Mike-Six-Five-Five, was revealed to be a bioweapon. Current investigations show that the event may have been an attack.
If so, this is the largest loss of life in a single attack. No groups are currently taking responsibility, but the current belief is the Old World Fanatics.
We have to believe that this is a gateway attack. Security measures have been increased throughout the country, but there is no further intelligence.
We, the undersigned, approve of the creation of the Special Measures Bureau under the direction of Lord Cromon.
I feel like I need a better acronym for the Special Measures Bureau, but that’s a task for another day.
The Idiot in Tin Foil