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People were walking along it, standing talking in groups, mud-splattered
bewildered searchers who had been lucky enough to make it back to dry land.
Some were still out there. Occasionally, borne on the gale, they heard the
barking of a dog, a human cry of anguish. But none was prepared to go back in
there.
Gratefully Andy Dark grasped at the stools of the hawthorn hedge, heedless of
the spiky thorns, pulled Carol up the bank with him, forced his way through
the branches. There was no time to search for a gap, they would not be safe
until they were clear of Droy Wood.
'Jesus wept!' Jim Fillery followed them, and only when his feet were on solid
tarmac did he turn back to look the way they had come. 'Just look at that
wood, it's awash, half the trees are floating. This tide'll reach the road.'
'It will that,' Andy Dark agreed, holding Carol close to him. 'The sea's been
chipping away at that coastline for centuries and now it's finally broken
through. I guess that's the end of Droy Wood . . . and everything in it!'
For a few seconds they stood and watched the final destruction of the wood,
swirling foaming water washing over the foul mud, cleansing it, sweeping away
the trees whose shallow roots had been dislodged. The mist was gone, replaced
by driving spray. Shapes that were gone before you had a chance to identify
them. A ruined house which might or might not have been turreted; it crumbled
and fell. Within a few hours it would all be one huge seascape. Nature had
fought fiercely ... and won.
'We'd better go home and get some clothes,' Andy smiled wryly at his
companions. 'A hot bath, something to eat and then sleep the clock round. And
after that I guess we'll be plied with questions to which there aren't any
answers, eh?'
Jim Fillery nodded. This was one report which he wasn't looking forward to
writing. It was going to read like some weird way-out piece of fiction.
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