The Fallen

by Charlie Higson

  So had he dealt with the patrol or might they appear at any moment? She had no hope of getting to the whistle around Cameron’s neck to alert them.

  The only thing she could do was try to reason with him, to reach out to the boy who must still be in there somewhere.

  ‘You’re Paul, aren’t you?’ she said. He didn’t reply, just licked his lips again. That pink tongue crawling over his dry skin.

  ‘I’m Maxie. I’m new here.’

  ‘I’m hungry,’ said Paul, his voice dry and dusty.

  So he could still talk then. That was a start. He moved closer to her and she saw that there was a film of sweat on his face and his skin was twitching, shivering, seeming to crawl on his face.

  ‘We can find you something to eat,’ she said.

  ‘No, you can’t.’

  ‘I can,’ said Maxie, sounding lame, even to herself.

  Paul just made a dismissive noise. Moved his blade gently in the air.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ Maxie said. ‘Why did you kill that poor girl?’

  ‘Why did you kill that poor girl?’ Paul’s mocking voice became harsh and grating, like he was channelling someone else. Someone older and fouler.

  ‘Are you going to be a dick or are you going to talk to me?’ she said.

  Paul looked surprised by this. He peered at her again with that cold animal stare. She wondered whether to shout, to scream. It might bring the patrol running, but it might also shock him into action. She didn’t want him to suddenly come at her. The knife looked horribly sharp. Even if it didn’t kill her it could do a lot of damage. She thought of Brooke’s face. Of Achilleus, mauled in the fight at the palace. And she was sitting down, couldn’t move fast. He had the advantage of being on his feet, tensed and ready to strike. She pictured the knife lashing out, cutting cleanly through skin, through muscle, grinding on her bones …

  The candle flickered as a draught from under the door passed over it. Even though Paul hadn’t changed position the shifting shadows made it look like he was moving.

  Maxie was aware of the tea light, right in front of her foot in its glass container. An idea came to her, but she couldn’t risk looking down. Didn’t want him to guess what she was thinking.

  ‘Why don’t you put the knife away?’ she said, trying to make her voice sound calm and reassuring, soothing. Like she was nice.

  ‘Why don’t you put the knife away … ?’ Paul wasn’t trying to sound nice, more like something out of a rubbish horror film. He was swaying more noticeably from left to right, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his hand, the one that held the knife, shaking. Maxie spotted a movement and glanced over at Cameron. He wasn’t dead. He was waking up.

  That was bad. Paul might get spooked. Do something rash.

  It was now or never.

  Maxie quickly jerked her foot forward as hard as she could, sending the candle skittering across the floor. At the same time she rolled sideways out of her chair, groping unsuccessfully for her sword, and hit the floor empty-handed …

  The candle had gone out and the museum was instantly plunged into darkness. The sudden absence of light was dramatic. She was blind. Hoped Paul was too.

  It wouldn’t last, though. There would be enough light coming in through the windows for them to see each other soon, so Maxie kept moving, scrambling away on all fours, and now she was yelling.

  ‘He’s here! Paul is here!’

  She prayed that Cameron was all right. Hoped that in the confusion, and with all the noise she was making, Paul would come after her and not try to attack Cameron where he sat.

  She heard whistles, running feet, saw torch beams scratching at the darkness.

  ‘Be careful!’ she screamed. ‘He’s got a knife. Keep away from him.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I can’t see him.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  Maxie looked to where she’d last seen Paul. No sign of him. He must have moved fast. She scuttled backwards, wanting to get against a wall. She was still unarmed. Paul might come at her, make a last desperate attack. But where was he?

  ‘Cameron?’ she called out. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Yeah. What’s going on?’

  ‘Paul was here. You fell asleep again.’

  ‘Paul? Where?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’s gone.’

  The patrol finally ran over and Maxie felt a pathetic flood of relief. She got up and grabbed her sword, yanked it from its sheath, feeling much better now that she had a solid weapon in her hands. Her head was pounding, her knees weak, liable to give way at any minute. She was only glad she hadn’t wet herself in her panic. The patrol was scouring the area, shining their torches into every corner, while trying to stay together in a tight bunch with Maxie and Cameron.

  ‘You’re sure?’ said Cameron, staring accusingly at Maxie. ‘You’re sure it was him?’

  ‘Who else could it be?’

  ‘It’s dark.’

  ‘He fitted your description exactly.’

  ‘I don’t remember falling asleep,’ said Cameron. ‘You could have dreamt it.’

  Could she? Could she have imagined the whole thing? What if she’d been asleep the whole time and Cameron had been awake?

  No. She was sure of it. The smell and everything. It still lingered in the air.

  And then Cameron said something.

  ‘I’m bleeding.’

  One of the patrol shone a torch in his face. He looked as pale as Paul. He was shaking, about to pass out, his hand by his neck. He took it away and it was wet. Red. There was a smear of blood below his ear.

  ‘He cut me …’

  Maxie caught him as he fell.

  72

  Brandon wasn’t sure what he was looking at. A head? But a head so swollen it looked unreal. With a face on it. Like a face drawn on a balloon. With huge eyes and a tiny mouth. That didn’t make sense, though, did it?

  So what was going on?

  He was lying on the floor behind the counter in the reception area. He and Kamahl had moved there last night. Too exhausted and strung out to stay watching the doors and too scared to go into the bowels of the building to find Blue.

  The counter acted like a wall and gave them a small sense of security. They’d ripped open the leather seats and torn out the stuffing to try to make some kind of a bed, but it had been a cold and uncomfortable night. They’d barely slept, being all too aware of the grown-ups outside, crowding up against the doors and windows. Every few minutes either he or Kamahl had woken with a start and jumped up to look over at them, convinced that they’d been disturbed by someone getting in.

  No. It was only their dreams and their fears that had disturbed them, and they would slump back down, ragged and aching in their bones.

  And now …

  What was he looking at …?

  Maybe one of them had got in. It was only grown-ups who looked bloated like this, wasn’t it? The disease could change the shape of their bodies. Make them swell and warp. But something about this face looked younger, the face of a girl, not a mother.

  Brandon kicked Kamahl, who grunted and woke up. When he saw the face looming over the top of the counter he swore and scrambled clumsily to his feet, reaching for his spear. Brandon was immediately up and next to him …

  And he saw, behind the girl, a boy with a face made out of folded sheets. He wanted to yell. And then all the air went out of him in a great sigh and his heart stopped racing as he spotted Blue, Jackson and the rest.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Blue,’ said Brandon, his voice wobbly. ‘Where the hell have you been?’

  ‘And who the hell are these two?’ Kamahl added.

  ‘That’s Betty Bubble and Skinner,’ said Blue matter-of-factly, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. ‘They’re with us.’

  Brandon glanced quickly over at the doors. The rain had stopped. It was damp outside, but the sky was clear. Morning sunlight streamed in through the glass. There was no sign of any o
f the grown-ups. The only evidence that they’d even been there were the filthy streaks and smears on the windows.

  Brandon felt sick and hungry and shaky. Angry with Blue that they’d been abandoned here and confused by the appearance of the two weird kids. One like an inflated balloon, the other like a burst one.

  It was Blue who spoke first, though.

  ‘Where’s Mick and Jake?’

  ‘They went out,’ said Kamahl. ‘And they never came back.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Yesterday,’ said Kamahl, pointing to the glass wall with a trembling hand. ‘That was full of grown-ups. A whole mess of them.’

  ‘And Mick went out there?’

  ‘He was acting bare weird. He didn’t look well. He went out to scare off some cats.’

  ‘Cats?’

  ‘Yeah. And he was ambushed by grown-ups. Then Jake went out to try and help him, and they got Jake too. There was so many of them.’

  ‘Yeah. I saw them from the roof.’ Blue walked over to the windows and looked out, as if he might see Mick and Jake out there somewhere.

  ‘This was yesterday?’ he said.

  ‘Yeah. We didn’t know what to do.’

  Blue swore. A quick, vicious burst. Then he turned to look at Brandon and Kamahl, his face set hard.

  ‘Mick should have known better than to go out there,’ he said.

  ‘We’d have helped him, but …’

  ‘You did the right thing. Staying inside. I know how many there was out there. It was Mick’s fault.’

  ‘What’s happening, Blue? Why’ve you been so long?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what’s happening. We need to get round the back of the warehouse and bring the gear out through the loading doors.’

  ‘But what have you been doing?’

  ‘You reckon it’s all quiet out there now?’ said Blue, ignoring Brandon’s question.

  ‘I dunno. We only just woke up.’

  ‘I’ll go check.’

  ‘We’ll come with you.’

  ‘No,’ Blue snapped. ‘You wait here. Nobody bloody move, OK? Can you manage that? I’m going outside. Alone. I’m not risking anyone else getting hurt.’

  Jackson watched Blue walk over to the doors, unlock them and pull them open, and then he walked outside as if there was nothing to fear. Like he was leaving all the bad stuff behind, a boy storming off after an argument. He looked quickly left and right then went along the windows to the left. In a moment he was out of sight.

  She wondered about Blue. There was something cold and hard about him. He’d barely reacted at all when the two boys told him his friends were dead. Just got on with business. Maybe you needed to be like that to be a leader. To not have any feelings. Maybe you had to just worry about the group. If the group was safe then the individuals in it didn’t matter. That’s why she never wanted to be a leader. She’d let someone else carry that load.

  She just hoped she never got on the wrong side of Blue.

  73

  Blue walked away until he was sure he was out of sight of the others. There was a wide passage between the office block and the warehouse block. Several grown-ups lay dead and mangled on the ground. At least Mick had taken some with him.

  Stupid sod. Stupid bloody stupid sod.

  He kicked one of the bodies. A father. The body gurgled and split.

  He kicked it again. He hadn’t come out here to check on anything. It was obvious the grown-ups had left when the sun came up. Although part of him had been hoping there might be one or two still hanging about. Something for him to take his fury out on.

  No. He just needed to be alone, away from the group. His throat was tight, as if someone had their hands around it. His eyes were stinging. It was taking all his effort not to start crying. He turned his face up to the sky and that seemed to help. OK. Good. He had it under control.

  He sniffed. Who was he kidding?

  Don’t cry. Don’t let yourself cry. Mick wouldn’t want that.

  Big Mick had been his best friend. By his side for the last year. They’d shared everything and had gone through so much together. Mick hadn’t been very bright, or particularly funny, but he’d been loyal. Reliable. Someone Blue could always lean on. Blue had never been scared in a fight as long as Mick was with him, which he always had been.

  And now he was gone.

  That was hard to take. Blue kicked the dead father in the head. Gunk flew out and splattered across the ground. Grey jelly and bits of diseased flesh. Blue kicked him again, and again, and kept on kicking until the head came away from the neck and rolled against the wall.

  Blue realized he was crying now. A fat tear rolled down one cheek and he swore and swiped it away with the back of his hand. That made him angrier. God, he wished there was a living grown-up here, walking around, so he could smash it to pieces. The bastards. Every time Blue thought they were getting ahead, getting on top of things, something like this would happen. He felt shaken and uncertain in a way he hadn’t felt for ages. He had to get it all out of his system before he went back to the others.

  He stared at the headless torso of the dead father. More grey jelly was oozing from its neck. He was about to kick the body again when it moved. The arms twitched and the fingers of one hand closed into a fist. The other hand seemed to almost be reaching out towards him.

  He swore and stamped on the body. Crushed the closed hand beneath his boot.

  The father didn’t move any more. Maybe it never had. His vision was so blurred by tears he could easily have imagined it. Dead bodies didn’t move. Unless it was a kind of post-death twitch, a muscular contraction or spasm of some kind? That was possible, wasn’t it? One thing he knew for sure: the disease didn’t turn people into zombies. They weren’t the living dead.

  But then meeting the Twisted Kids had shown him that there was more going on out there than he’d ever imagined. It was strange living in a world without TV, or school, or the Internet. Before the disease he’d been bombarded by information all day long, too much for him to ever take in. Now his world had shrunk to a tiny patch of London, and the day-to-day struggle to get food and survive.

  Blue spat on the corpse. Cursed it. Looked around to check that none of the others were moving. And that was when he saw a dead mother’s mouth gape open, as if she wanted to say something. He froze and a chill spread through his guts. He watched, unable to look away, as her tongue started to poke out and her cheeks bulged. Her eyes widened. She was definitely about to speak, he knew it. He had a feeling in his bones that she was going to say something that would flip the world on its head again.

  But her tongue, purple with brown patches eaten into it, just kept on coming, sticking further and further out of her mouth, until it fell out completely and a moment later a small rat followed it. It picked up the tongue and glared at Blue as if to say, ‘What are you looking at?’ then quickly darted away holding the tongue in its teeth.

  Blue laughed.

  Zombies. What a dork he’d been. Talking zombies. Yeah, right.

  He gave a mighty sniff, gobbed up a wad of green phlegm that he aimed at the mother’s face, wiped his mouth with his sleeve and took a deep breath.

  It was over. Big Mick was gone. Life went on. He had to saddle up, kick some arse. And God help anyone who got in his way. He knew his foul mood was not going to lift. He should be with Maxie right now. They should have been safely home at the museum yesterday. That was all he wanted. He missed her more than ever. Wanted with all his soul to get back to her, to hold on to her.

  Maxie.

  74

  ‘This is why we should never have come here, Maxie.’ Maeve was pacing up and down anxiously, like an animal in a cage. She was in the sick-bay, where Maxie was sitting next to the unconscious body of Cameron. Cameron had a wad of cotton wool taped to his neck. He looked pale and feverish, his eyes twitching behind his closed lids. Every now and then he would moan and shift in the bed. And then he would become still again and Maxie would wipe hi
s forehead and feel his pulse.

  The only other occupant of the room was Robbie, who was still sleeping in there. He’d recovered from his exhaustion of the previous day and was looking healthy and cheerful. He’d offered to show Maxie his stitches. Said he looked like something out of a horror film. A monster crudely stitched together from spare body parts.

  Maxie hadn’t taken him up on his offer.

  ‘We should have left London when we had the chance,’ said Maeve. ‘Not followed that liar Jester into the centre of town.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Maxie didn’t really want to join in this conversation. She’d had it too many times before with Maeve and right now all she could think about was Cameron. Scared that it was her fault Paul had sliced his neck open.

  The thing was she had no idea whether it had happened before or after she’d kicked the candle over.

  ‘We should have gone to the countryside,’ said Maeve. ‘It’s crazy living in the city. In the country we can grow food. We can defend ourselves from the grown-ups. There’s nowhere for them to hide out there. Round here there are thousands and thousands of buildings. We can never search them all. Go to the country and we can build a fort or something. Find somewhere to live. We’ll have to do it one day. The food the grown-ups left behind is going to run out sooner or later. Then what? We can’t eat houses, we can’t eat bricks.’

  ‘It wasn’t a grown-up who did this, though, was it?’ said Maxie, feeling Cameron’s forehead. He’d lost a lot of blood, though luckily the knife had missed his artery. ‘It was a kid like us,’ she went on. ‘We don’t always know who the enemy is. We all thought that as long as the grown-ups were the enemy we didn’t have to worry about anything else. But think about it, Maeve. A bare lot of us have been killed by grown-ups, but just as many have been wiped out by disease. Arran was shot by an arrow fired by that posh girl Sophie. Freak died in the squatter camp. Josh and Joel were killed by diseased monkeys, for God’s sake. And the last few deaths here. As far as we know, it was Paul. A boy.’