‘We can’t pull the decoy trick again,’ he said, letting her go. ‘Not in here. Won’t work. Not enough of us. Too dangerous. Which means we’ve just got to fight our way out. I’ll go first … ’
‘Wait,’ said the girl, finally finding her voice. She put up her hand then ran off.
‘She’s forgotten her handbag,’ said Kyle. ‘Typical girl.’
Adele shoved him and Kyle laughed.
The girl returned with a backpack. She dropped it to the floor and opened the top. Started scrabbling around inside it for something.
‘Can’t find her purse,’ said Kyle and Adele elbowed him in the ribs.
It wasn’t a purse she pulled out, however; it was a pistol of some sort, with a wide, stubby barrel. Then she brought out a box. Ed read the label. They were flares. She cracked the gun and slotted a flare into it.
Ed smiled his approval. The girl put away the rest of the flares, stuffed her stick into the bag, then fastened it and straightened up, the gun heavy in her trembling hand.
‘You ready then?’ Ed asked, helping the girl on with her pack. She spoke again, her voice hoarse from shouting.
‘I’m ready.’
10
‘I’ll pop the door, you let them have it. When I say, we break out of here.’
Ed and Kyle went to the glass and jeered at the sickos, riling them, winding them up. They jittered and shook and clawed at the door in a frenzy. Once Ed was sure he had them all hooked he took hold of the handle.
‘Stand back … ’
He wrenched the door open, two sickos spilt in and Kyle and Adele laid into them. Meanwhile, the green girl steadied her arm and fired the flare gun into the open doorway.
There was a bang and the next sicko in line fell back, a bright red ball of fire fizzing and hissing in the middle of his chest. His shirt caught fire and in a moment the corridor was full of sparks and yellow smoke. The other sickos backed off in confusion, coughing and choking.
‘Follow me,’ Ed yelled and he was first out of the door, chopping to left and right with his sword. It was hard to see anything and he tripped on a fallen body. Luckily he kept his balance and managed to cut through the sickos and get to the stairway. He was about to head down when Adele called out.
‘Wait!’
Now what? Ed turned to look down the corridor. The green girl had stopped halfway and was squatting down by one of the doorways.
‘Come on!’
Sickos were approaching the girl through the smoke. They were lit a demonic red by the still blazing flare.
‘Come on!’
He ran back to grab her, but she wouldn’t move. Ed realized it was the doorway where he’d killed the thing that had grabbed his leg. He looked at the body on the floor. It wasn’t a sicko. It was another girl. Also dressed in green.
He’d killed her.
Ed swore. She was missing a hand and her neck was slashed where he’d hacked at her. But then he saw that her stomach had been ripped open and her intestines had flopped on to the floor. The sickos had got her first – that’s why she’d been on the floor.
‘She’s dead,’ he said. ‘Leave her.’
The girl didn’t move.
‘Leave her!’ Ed shouted, and pulled the girl up by her sweatshirt. A sicko came close and Ed angrily sliced his blade across his face, blinding him. Then he dragged the girl along the corridor to the stairs and almost threw her down. She found her feet and stumbled ahead of him and he hustled after her, his heart pounding.
Mercifully they made it safely to the bottom and were soon out in the fresh air where Macca and Will were waiting for them.
‘We need to leg it,’ said Macca, pointing westwards to where another knot of sickos was approaching along Byward Street.
The kids didn’t wait to be told twice; they raced across the road and legged it down towards the castle gates.
Ed was grinding his teeth. He’d had a go at Kyle for almost killing another kid and now he’d done it himself.
Brilliant.
He told himself that she would have died anyway – she was too badly wounded. Better a quick death than a long, slow one. He told himself that it had been an accident. That they wouldn’t have been able to carry her out of there because of the sickos.
In the end, though, there was no getting round the fact that he’d killed a kid.
‘Well done, boss,’ said Kyle as they helped the gatekeepers close the big black gates behind them in Middle Tower. They were both panting, their chests heaving.
‘Another successful mission. No one hurt. One girl rescued.’ Kyle slapped him on the back. ‘Result.’
It had all been worth it.
Hadn’t it?
11
He supposed it was only a matter of time. The Fear had to eat. There were too many of them now to rely on the few children they caught. Shadowman had tried to count the strangers, but it was too hard. They only came out at night and he couldn’t risk getting too close. It was difficult to get a fix on them through his binoculars. He’d pan over the horde and then lose track of those he’d counted and those he hadn’t. There were definitely more than fifty, maybe even more than a hundred, and there were new arrivals every night, stragglers, who seemed drawn to the bigger pack.
They’d been moving steadily across north London, from house to house, street to street, eating anything in their path, like a spreading stain. Shadowman followed along behind, trying not to think too closely about what they left behind, the bones, the scraps of skin and clumps of bloody hair. But they also left in their wake food that they couldn’t get at, unopened tin cans, dried food wrapped in tough plastic, unopened bottles and jars, and this Shadowman scavenged.
He was impressed at how thorough they were. What an incredibly destructive force.
Was it really only a few days ago he’d left the relative safety of central London where he’d been living and headed up this way with a group of friends looking for other children? It struck him just how useless they’d been, finding no one until it was too late. There were other children, though, and The Fear were finding them easily enough.
They marched slowly on, covering only a few streets a night. They could only move as fast as the slowest among them and there were some very slow mothers and fathers in the pack: older ones, more diseased ones, those who’d been injured. They hobbled and crawled and staggered, twelve of them at his latest count. Easier to keep track of, as they were always at the back, closest to him. Shadowman almost felt like he was getting to know them. Had made up names for most of them.
Well, that had been a waste of time.
When it happened, it happened so quickly it had taken Shadowman completely by surprise.
The Fear had been sleeping through the day in a primary school. Old red-brick buildings, long since abandoned. They’d found nothing to eat the night before and as the sun had come up over the streets, they’d crawled inside to rest. Shadowman had found a good vantage point in a block of flats over the road and had himself settled down to sleep like the strangers. He was getting used to their rhythms and routines, tuning in to their behaviour. He slept lightly, though, and could wake up and be on his feet in the time it took to flick a switch. When they stirred, he stirred.
He wondered sometimes if he was becoming infected by them somehow, turning into an insect, part of the swarm, the flock, the herd, the stain. Other times, when he was feeling less dramatic, he reckoned it was just their smell that woke him. They gave off a powerful stench, so powerful it masked his own smell and stopped them from finding him. He’d killed some of them the other day, a hunting party led by a mutilated stranger he’d dubbed the One-Armed Bandit. Afterwards he’d drenched his cloak in their blood, just to be sure. He smelt like one of them now.
He’d woken at dusk as the first of The Fear emerged from the school buildings and spilt out into the playground. He’d got on to his knees and spied on them through a window. Watched as they congregated by a climbing frame. Just like the old days
when parents hung about chatting to each other after dropping their kids off. They milled about, waiting for St George to come out with his little gang of officers, as Shadowman thought of them.
And then they’d come. Spike, who still had a crossbow bolt stuck in his ribs where Shadowman had shot him. Bluetooth, in the tattered remains of a City suit, with a Bluetooth earpiece embedded in his ear. Man U, in his red Manchester United shirt. And then there he was, St George himself, wearing baggy shorts, a pair of glasses that had long since lost their lenses and the grubby vest with the cross of St George on it that had given him his name. He had a huge head, grotesquely swollen by the disease so that it was now almost too heavy for his neck to support. It lolled on his shoulders and if his body hadn’t been so stocky, his legs so sturdy, Shadowman might have wondered why he didn’t just fall over, he was so top-heavy.
St George shuffled out into the middle of the playground, scratching his great bald head, looking around at his fellow strangers, staring them down, his officers flanking him.
Every day he appeared more human, less confused. Perhaps the disease was wearing off? Perhaps his body was fighting it, but if so, why did he continue with his murderous rampage? If anything he was more savage each night.
Then he stopped. Stood there, The Fear in a big circle all around him, staring silently at him, as if listening. Was he communicating with them somehow? Were they tuned in to his thoughts? There could be no other explanation for what happened next. The Fear moved, as one, and grabbed the twelve weaklings. Tossed them to St George.
Shadowman had seen it all through his binoculars. Had watched as St George shuddered, turned his face, first to the darkening sky, then down to the pathetic pile of humanity crawling on the ground at his feet.
Then he’d smiled and The Fear flowed inwards and swarmed over the weak ones. Mercilessly and methodically they’d butchered their own kind and were now sharing the meat around. There were too many memories for Shadowman. Taking him back to a time before all this. He remembered summer fairs at primary school, when all the parents had come to help out, cooking curries and barbecues, sausages and cakes and vegetarian fritters. A band in the corner made up of dads who still dreamt of being rock stars, playing old blues and rock and roll songs. Teachers in the stocks having wet sponges thrown at them. Goal-kicking contests. Stalls selling old clothes and books and unwanted toys. Everyone talking away, eating and drinking and happy.
Well, this was like a horrible parody of those days. Now the parents were eating each other. Thank God there were no kids down there tonight. It didn’t really upset Shadowman watching adults being killed and eaten. And that bothered him a little. Bothered him that he wasn’t bothered. How quickly he’d become hardened to it all. What did that say about him? Before things fell apart this would have been the most horrific sight. He’d have needed to go into therapy to cope with it. Now he was mostly intrigued by the organization shown by the strangers, by the planning that had seemed to go into the attack.
Something did bother him, though.
The strangers would be stronger now, better fed, quicker …
But still hungry. Always hungry.
Shadowman prayed that they didn’t find any children tonight.
12
Her name was Tish. She was fourteen years old. She’d grown up north of here in Islington, with her mother, a brother called Neil and a dog called Boris. This much Sam and The Kid had learnt about the green girl. Once she’d stopped crying.
Ed had put her in with them, in their little house on Mint Street built into the outer wall of the castle. Mint Street was like a medieval street inside the Tower, with flowers growing in pots and clothes hanging out to dry on lines. The houses were self-contained, mostly single-storey, with two or three bedrooms each. They had little front doors and narrow arched windows that looked out on to the cobbled street, on the other side of which were the high battlements and old towers of the inner wall. There were some small windows at the back of the houses, little more than arrow slits for the most part, going back more than a metre through the stonework in a cross shape. You couldn’t see much through them and Sam was OK with that. The less he saw of the world outside, the better. The Casemates were warm and dry and felt utterly safe. No sickos were ever going to force their way into the castle.
Sam and The Kid shared a room, with a bed each. A girl called Ali had another room and Tish had been given the third bedroom.
Ed had told Sam and The Kid that they were to gently find out as much as they could about Tish. He felt he couldn’t face her yet, felt awful about killing her friend, who he now knew was called Louise. He was keeping a distance and wanted all the other older kids to do the same. Tish needed to settle in and feel reassured.
‘Anyone coming here from the outside world has valuable information,’ he’d told the boys. ‘When she’s ready, Jordan can properly quiz her, but for now find out what you can.’
He’d been right to keep away. Tish was really cut up about Louise, wouldn’t stop talking about her, about what good friends they’d been. How she couldn’t get the picture out of her mind, Louise lying there dead, her hand cut off, her throat slashed, her guts …
It had taken her a few days to bottom out and now she was obviously still very sad, but she wasn’t crying all the time. She would either have to bury her sadness or go crazy. Like most kids she had horrible memories shut away and had a sort of haunted look about her. She was calm, though, and quiet, and seemed to like being with Sam and The Kid.
It was nearly bedtime. They’d all four shared a communal meal in the café with the Tower kids – tonight it had been rice and beans – before returning to their house.
Ali had gone to bed to read a book. She read a lot. Had been quite happy living there by herself, didn’t seem to get lonely or need company; nothing seemed to freak her out. She seemed OK with the three newcomers. Hardly seemed to notice them really. Spent most of the time with her nose in a book. Books were valuable, the only real entertainment most kids had, apart from when they fired up the generator and showed DVDs in the pub. The kids who went out foraging always brought back any books they found and there were a couple of libraries nearby that they visited regularly to pick up cartloads of new reading material.
Sam, The Kid and Tish were in the living room of their house, their hobbit hole as The Kid called it, as if it had been burrowed out of the flinty stones of the castle.
Tish was sitting on the sofa with her legs curled up under her, drinking a cup of tea she’d brought back from the café, one hand absently picking at the dark scab on her forehead. She was wearing her green outfit: green sweatshirt, green trousers. They’d been washed since she’d arrived, which had made the colours fade slightly, and they’d given her some other clothes from the store, but this was her favourite look. Tish liked green.
‘What’s with the green, sister?’ The Kid had asked her the first night she was there, to try and distract her from talking about Louise.
‘Living here in London, in all this grey, it reminds me of the countryside.’
‘I guess so.’
‘You can talk anyway,’ said Tish. ‘You wear the weirdest clothes I’ve ever seen on anyone.’
It was true. The Kid had a very individual dress sense. His favourite item was a woman’s battered old leather jacket that he’d cut the sleeves off – ‘Too long. I ain’t no gibbon.’ And since arriving here he’d taken to wearing a long dress over tartan trousers that he’d picked up from the Armourers. He claimed the dress kept him warm. He’d also picked up a seventeenth-century helmet that he liked to wear when out and about, even though it was way too big for him. He and Sam were proud of their weapons and armour. Sam went for more of a medieval look. He’d found a leather jerkin that fitted him OK – Ed said it must have belonged to a very stunted soldier – and he had a short sword that he wore slung from a belt over his shoulder. He also had a dagger and a flintlock. The flintlock was unloaded and probably didn’t work.
&nb
sp; The room was lit by one small candle that gave off a gently flickering orange light. Everybody looked better in candlelight. It hid a lot. Sam and The Kid had been well scrubbed when they’d first got here and Sam had been amazed at how The Kid’s skin was now several shades lighter. His hair still stuck up in a wiry tangle, though.
Tish took a sip of her tea and smiled, enjoying the warmth. She stared into her mug. Stuck on a memory. Sam hoped she wasn’t thinking about Louise again.
‘Mum used to make the best cups of tea,’ she said. ‘Neil was useless, though. Always made it too weak. Either that or he left the tea bag in so long it tasted rank.’
‘What happened to them?’ Sam asked.
‘Neil was older than me; he died of the disease early on. My dad had moved away before. He was in Leicester and we lost contact with him when everything went wrong. I assume he’s dead along with most of the adults. I hope he is. I wouldn’t want to think of him as one of them, a Neph’, you know, a sicko.’
‘You call them sickos too?’ said Sam.
‘Huh?’
‘Just like the kids here. We just call them grown-ups, mothers and fathers.’
‘They’re sickos,’ said Tish. ‘And when I think of Dad, I think of him like he was, not like them. To be honest, I didn’t use to see that much of him. We spoke on the phone now and then, and a couple of times a year he’d come down to London and take me to the Rainforest Café, even when I was too old for it. Every time I saw him he looked at me like I was a stranger. Kept boring on about how tall I was, how I’d grown. And when I got boobs, he was well freaked out. Kept sneaking a look at them like he couldn’t believe it. Said I was growing up too fast. Well, if he’d wanted he could’ve visited me more, couldn’t he? He made his life. Made it in Leicester with another woman who wasn’t my mum.’
‘Did your mum die?’ asked Sam. ‘Or did she … You know?’
‘She was killed, to be honest. It was well bad. Some looters broke into the house, right when things were at their worst. They were looking for food. Mum tried to fight them off, one of them hit her in the head and that was that. She was killed. They didn’t mean it, not to kill her, and afterwards they took me with them; they felt guilty I guess and wanted to look after me. One by one, though, they died of the sickness and I was glad. I hated them. The last one, the one who had done it, who had hit her, he was big and tough, lived longer than the others. I could see he wasn’t going to keel over, was gonna become a sicko. I put him out of his misery, the bastard. Put him out of everyone’s misery. Knocked him down with a hammer and cut his head off with a garden spade. Good riddance I say.’