At first there was no response then a voice called down to him from the roof.
‘Get away from here. We don’t let no one in.’
‘You have to!’ Jester pleaded. ‘I’m being chased by strangers. There’s hundreds of them out here, grown-ups.’
‘That’s why we ain’t opening the doors, mate. Piss off. We don’t want you here.’
‘You can’t lock me out!’
‘Can’t we?’
‘Let me in, please …’
‘We’ll kill you if we have to.’
‘You can’t …’
Then Jester felt a sting in the side of his head and rubbed his scalp. Something had hit him – already a lump was coming up. Then another sting as something hit his shoulder. They were throwing stuff at him from the roof. Stones and bits of wood. He backed away.
‘Bastards!’ he screamed, and they swore at him.
Before they could throw anything else he retreated back out into the street, rubbing his head. More strangers had appeared. He glanced quickly in both directions, looking for any signs of light. If there was one gang of kids living around here, there might be more. He might find someone with a warmer welcome.
There! Could it be? Yes? More lights, shining out from another supermarket further along the road. He recognized the sign – Waitrose. It was where his parents had shopped before the disaster.
He ran towards it, bowling three strangers over along the way, desperate now. If he got the same response here, he was dead. The road was filling with strangers who were pouring in from all directions. And they were thickest around Waitrose.
He forced himself to move faster, his feet hammering on the tarmac, and he slammed against the front windows of the shop, roaring for help at the top of his voice, feeling like his lungs were going to burst. His shout for help turned into a scream as a mother lunged at him, teeth bared in a snarl. He battered her away and banged again on the windows.
Then he was aware of a fresh light and he looked up. Someone was shining a torch down at him.
‘Let me in!’
He heard voices, but couldn’t tell what they were saying. Filled with a mad fury he slammed an approaching father against the glass, and then kicked another in the guts. Jabbing left and right with his elbows he backed away from the windows, all the while yelling for help. He broke free of the huddle around him and was on the move again, darting madly to avoid a larger group of grown-ups who were trying to close in on him. The torch beam zigzagged across the road, like a spotlight in a prison-escape movie.
What were they doing up there? Were they going to help him or not?
‘Please! Help me!’ he wailed, his voice thin and weedy like a baby’s. He tore himself out of the grip of a very determined father and ran back towards the shop. He couldn’t get there, though. The strangers were going berserk. Half were attacking him, half seemed to be trying to break into the shop. The father was on him again and Jester managed to hurl him at a group of grown-ups who slammed into the glass. Shouting, screaming, punching and kicking, Jester fought his way back into the open and started running. He was forced to keep switching direction or risk being penned in by the milling grown-ups, and was soon going round in circles. Exhaustion was taking hold. His body was running on its last reserves. He had used all his energy getting to the shop and shouting for help. He couldn’t believe that the kids inside were just going to watch him die out here.
And then the faces of the strangers around him were suddenly lit red and orange, like spectators at a firework display. A flaming torch was sailing through the night sky, bright against the clouds. It landed with an explosion of sparks, scattering the strangers. Jester heard kids shouting a war cry.
He clamped his hand to his mouth to stop himself from crying.
It looked like he was going to be rescued.
Maybe there was a God after all.
50
Shadowman was in some kind of tunnel. At one end was darkness, the other opened out into what he thought might be a large enclosed space. The four strangers from the building site hadn’t killed him. They’d brought him here and dumped him in the tunnel. He wasn’t sure exactly where here was, though, because it was too dark to see anything properly and he’d blacked out before they’d arrived. Now he was sitting propped up with his back against the wall trying to get his bearings. He wasn’t alone. There were several other kids with him. All dead except for one girl, and she was barely alive. Occasionally she groaned and moved slightly, but when Shadowman had tried to speak to her she hadn’t replied.
There were noises from the depths of the tunnel and Shadowman was aware of more than one adult wandering around, coming and going in the darkness. The ones who had brought him here were keeping close. Standing watch over him. He wasn’t sure if it was to stop him from escaping or to stop the others from grabbing him. Just what they were keeping him alive for he had no idea. He was trying not to think ahead, trying not to imagine all the things that might be done to him. For now he was alive and feeling gradually more normal. His head was clearing and he didn’t feel so sick and woozy. He was able to stay awake for much longer periods, though he still felt very tired. Even without the blow to his head he supposed he’d feel tired, though. It was the middle of the night, after all. What time was it? No idea. His watch was in his pack and his pack was gone.
His four strangers lurked silently in the gloom. Waiting for something. He had made up nicknames for them. It made them somehow less threatening. The one with the earpiece he had named Bluetooth. The one in the football shirt was Man U. The half-naked father with the missing limb was the One-Armed Bandit. The fourth member of their group was a rather ordinary-looking father. If you could describe someone as ordinary when their skin was blistered and peeling off, and their hair was falling out. It was just that compared to the other three he had no obvious distinguishing features.
The thing about strangers, grown-ups, mothers and fathers – call them whatever you liked – was they all looked the same after a while. Diseased.
These four seemed quite patient. They squatted down, leaning against the far wall, now and then standing up and going over to peer out of the end of the tunnel. And whenever another stranger came close they all jumped up and went into aggressive mode. Guarding their territory, their trophies.
Otherwise they seemed happy to wait.
Shadowman was happy to wait too, because with every passing second he grew stronger. When the time came to fight and hopefully run, he was determined to be ready.
There was a hiss and snarl from the tunnel mouth and he turned to see what had made the sound – his eyes straining to make out the shapes in the dim light. There seemed to be a father standing there, a black shape against the paler grey of the outside world. He was squat with a massive head and appeared to be wearing baggy shorts. He made a noise that sounded like he was clearing his throat and the four strangers seemed to understand what he wanted. Two of them, Bluetooth and the Bandit, took hold of one of the dead kids by the ankles and dragged him outside. Man U and Mr Ordinary then took hold of the girl who was still alive and pulled her out by her feet in the same way. She moaned and whimpered but didn’t struggle. Then Bluetooth and the Bandit were back and taking hold of Shadowman. He decided not to fight, either. He needed to know where he was and what was going on before he could make any kind of escape plan.
When they dragged him out of the end of the tunnel, it was a moment before he realized where he was. It was so unexpected. In fact he had to close his eyes and open them a couple of times to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating.
It was a football stadium. Overhead was a wide expanse of open sky and all around were ranks of seats. He tried to think which stadium it might be. If he was in north London, it had to be either the Spurs ground or the Arsenal. It was big enough and modern enough to be the new Arsenal stadium and that would make sense as it was the nearest one to King’s Cross.
The father he had seen silhouetted in the tunnel mouth wa
s standing in the centre of the overgrown pitch. The four strangers seemed to be looking after him. Now that Shadowman could make him out clearly he saw that he had an immense, swollen bald head, a pair of wire-framed glasses with no lenses and was wearing a football vest with the cross of St George on it. There were two dead bodies at his feet, half hidden in the long grass, and the girl who was still alive was trying to stand up. Bluetooth went over and knocked her down, then stood patiently by the fat-headed one as if awaiting orders.
Shadowman had never seen this level of organization among grown-ups before. The idea that they might have a leader, that they might work together, was something new to him. Most of the grown-ups had been driven out of the area around Buckingham Palace, so Shadowman hadn’t been able to observe how they behaved, but obviously those that had survived the year since the disease first struck were changing, developing, growing. Unless it was only the cleverer ones that had survived this long. If they started to properly work together they would become truly dangerous. He was appalled, scared, and yet fascinated by what he was seeing.
He noticed that there were more strangers in the stadium seating, as if watching the spectacle that was unfolding on the pitch. Like some sort of gladiatorial games.
Or a human sacrifice.
How many were there?
Shadowman realized he had withdrawn from what was going on. He was watching all this as if it was happening to someone else. He’d always been the type to stand back and observe – now he was spying on his own death.
This would make quite a scene in a film. The grotesque swollen-headed father with the glasses, his diseased minions, the zombie spectators. All it lacked was flaming torches to give it the full Hollywood pagan-ceremony treatment.
As if on cue, a gout of flame shot up from the back of one section of seating. It seemed to be coming from one of the hospitality suites where privileged guests could watch the matches while tucking into a nice lunch. The fire spread and lit up half the stadium and then Shadowman was amazed to see a father, engulfed in flames from head to foot, come crashing out into the open, and tumble down three rows of seats. The strangers on the pitch were mesmerized. They turned as one to gaze dumbly at the rising column of smoke, and the flames that leapt and sparked as they spread along the back of the stands.
The strangers who were nearest to it were thrown into a panic. They spilt out of their seats and ran in all directions. Shadowman’s gang, the more organized ones, were calmer, but he could sense fear taking hold of them.
Something was attacking their den. For the moment they forgot about Shadowman and stood there, confused and angry. It was all the opportunity he needed, but if he tried to run would his legs betray him again? Would his brain short-circuit and send him flip-flapping to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut?
He had to risk it. He wasn’t going to be offered a better chance of escape than this, and if he delayed a moment longer the strangers might remember him and get back to work.
Now or never, Shadowman.
What did Nike say? Just do it …
He took a couple of deep breaths, filled his lungs with oxygen and lurched forward. He took a few wobbly steps and his legs held up.
Now run!
He broke away from the gang and aimed for the nearest stand. He wasn’t about to go back into the players’ tunnel – it was too dark in there and he had no idea where it led – but there would be openings in the stands leading to the exits. It would mean getting in among the strangers. He just hoped that they’d be confused and groggy and panicked.
Miracle of miracles, his legs stayed firm, his brain stayed focused. He vaulted over an advertising hoarding into the seats and felt a rush of life and energy surging through his body.
So long, suckers … The Shadowman is out of here!
51
‘You can’t leave.’
‘We can and we are.’
DogNut was standing by the diplodocus in the main hall at the museum with Courtney. Morning light was streaming in through the windows. They’d packed their gear and had been about to round up Felix and Marco when Justin had appeared, bustling in from one of the side galleries. Now he was hyped up and anxious.
‘You give us one good reason why we can’t go,’ said DogNut.
‘You promised me you’d tell your stories to Chris Marker, for The Chronicles of Survival.’
‘Did I? I don’t remember promising nothing.’
Justin grunted and rubbed his scalp, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
‘Well, yeah, OK,’ he said. ‘Maybe you didn’t promise, but I asked and I thought you’d agreed.’
‘Didn’t agree to nothing.’
‘It’s important to us,’ Justin pleaded.
‘We need to get back, Justin,’ said DogNut apologetically. ‘We’ve done what we set out to do. We found you lot – now we need to go and tell them back at the Tower. They’re the ones who need to hear our stories.’
‘Yes,’ said Justin, ‘I appreciate that, but, well, we’ve shown you everything we’re doing here, and … and the least you can do is tell us how you’ve survived. It would be a huge help to us.’
‘What d’you mean?’ said DogNut. ‘I don’t see how it helps anything.’
‘It’s a very valuable resource.’
‘A very valuable resource,’ said DogNut, mocking Justin’s nasal tones.
Justin’s face flushed red, and he raised his voice angrily. ‘You can take the piss, DogNut,’ he snapped, ‘but we happen to think it’s important.’
‘Well, how long’s it going to take?’ said DogNut.
‘All you have to do is tell your stories, starting with what you can remember of when the disease first struck, and finishing with your arrival here.’
‘Yeah,’ said DogNut. ‘So I’ll ask you again, brother, how long do you think it’ll take?’
‘I don’t know, a few hours? They’ve got to write it all down.’
‘A few hours?’ DogNut’s face was a picture of amazement. ‘But we need to make an early start. That ain’t gonna work.’
‘Leave tomorrow,’ Justin pleaded. ‘What difference will one more day make? It would mean a lot to us … It would mean a lot to me. I’ll give you stuff for the journey, food and water. If you’ll just do this one thing for me.’
‘I don’t know …’
‘He’s right, Dog,’ said Courtney. ‘What difference would one more day make?’
‘I thought it was you that wanted to go!’ DogNut protested.
‘I don’t mind.’
‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Justin. ‘If you agree to stay and tell us your stories, I’ll give you an escort. I’ll get Robbie to pick some fighters and go with you, at least some of the way.’
‘On one condition,’ said DogNut.
‘What?’
‘Jackson comes along. That girl is well hard.’
‘Deal.’
DogNut sighed and put down his pack. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Agreed. One more day. We’ll talk to Chris.’
‘Thanks, DogNut,’ said Justin, and he shook DogNut’s hand.
52
The squirrel ran across the grass, its body and tail moving in a series of flowing S shapes. It stopped. Sat up on its hind legs, its whole body shaking. There was no way it could go any further in this direction. It turned and darted back the way it had come. Again its path was blocked. It raced off in another direction. It was panicking, running shorter and shorter distances as the net tightened round it. Scurrying, stopping, turning, twitching, jumping …
The gym bunnies weren’t going to let it reach a tree. They’d been chasing it for the last half-hour, and they were determined to catch it.
They were getting used to the sunlight, staying out longer each time, growing braver. They’d risked coming into the park this morning. There was nobody else around and their hunger was driving them crazy. They’d stripped bark off the trees and pulled up plants to get at the roots. And then t
hey’d seen the squirrel. Scared it out of a tree down on to the ground.
Now it was surely trapped.
The mother moved forward. It would be her kill. She held her knife tight in one hand. All she had to do was grab the animal and slit its throat. It skittered away across the grass, chittering and squeaking. She dived, missed. Another sicko lunged. Another kicked it and it flew back towards the mother who at last managed to get a hand to it. She held it up to show the others, grinning. She was proud of them. They were learning to work together properly. They were a team.
The animal wriggled in her grasp, shrieking, scratching and biting her fingers. She put the knife to its scrawny neck and cut deep, severing its head. The bright red blood foamed out and she quickly put it to her mouth, drinking it down, feeling it hot against her tongue and lips.
A father picked up the head and popped it into his mouth, crunching it like a sweet.
The mother sat on the grass and stretched the animal’s small body out, stuck the knife into its belly to get at the guts.
It felt so good she smiled with joy. The knife was helping her think straight. The familiar feel of it in her hands was awakening old memories. She was becoming stronger, clearer-headed, more able to hunt and kill.
She stuffed the warm guts into her mouth, tossed the squirrel’s body to her pack and stood up.
Raised the knife to the sky. Felt the energy from it pulse through her body. Stared at it, clutched in her ragged fingers. Her eyes twitching in her head as they tried to focus on the blade. Transfixed by the light that lanced off it. Letting it flicker across her eyes. Showing the others in her pack that she wasn’t afraid. That she had the willpower to resist.
It was a tool, and tools were what had given mankind dominance over every other living thing on the planet. Just holding the knife had cleared her head and boosted the intelligence that made her the natural leader of the pack. And the powerful electric force that flowed through her from the cold, hard handle of the weapon brought back memories. Memories of all the things that she had lost. A glimpse into the perfect golden world she had lived in before the sickness had wormed its way inside her, wriggling and burrowing through her flesh. It had taken root in her just as the knife was doing now. She could see writhing tendrils snake out of the handle and dig into her flesh, joining with her veins and arteries. The power of the knife would banish the disease. She could see black lines on her skin. Was it a picture, perhaps? A picture of the disease?
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