‘But—’
‘I said get up, brother.’ She stepped forwards, hand raised, ready to beat the seriousness of her command into him. He flinched, scrabbling until he found his feet, standing stooped and frightened in the fingers of sticky light from the boarded window. She stared at Marcus and Jade, and they obeyed without her having to ask.
‘I’m hungry,’ mumbled Jade. With her filthy face and hair she looked like an urchin, and this just angered Rilke further. Food was unnecessary now that they were made of fire.
She walked to the door, opening it a crack and peering out into the blazing heat of the day. The only blemish on the huge blue canvas of the sky was a dull haze over the town they had annihilated, a faint black cloud that reminded her of a funeral veil. Helixes of seagulls swooped through it, feasting on whatever was left. It looked so far away. How were they going to get all the way to London, to where the man hung in his storm? They couldn’t walk there, certainly not while carrying the new boy. Rilke didn’t know how to drive, and it wasn’t as though they could just get on a train. Frustration boiled in her head and she wished she could scream away the world, just howl out across the land and bring the city and the storm to her. She had got as far as opening her mouth before she realised that any sound she might make would be pitiful. She clenched her teeth together, her fists, nails chiselled into her palms. They would just have to set off on foot, and see what luck brought them.
‘Let’s go,’ she said. She stepped out into the day, its warmth making her feel even more uncomfortable in her own flesh. She wanted to burn as fiercely as the sun, not feel its condescending touch on her. There was the scuffle of movement behind her and a moment later Jade edged from the door with the new boy’s arm over her shoulder, Marcus propping up his other side. Schiller was the last, looking three foot tall as he stooped from the windmill. ‘You’re all stronger than you think now,’ she told them. ‘You have angels inside you, they will keep you safe. The weakness is just a memory from your old life, ignore it and it will go away.’
Even as she spoke she felt the blood drain from her head, the world spin like a giddy fool around her. She took a step to re-establish her equilibrium, heading around the side of the windmill. There was a farmhouse fifty metres away, and beyond that nothing but fields until a line of distant trees. If they walked west for long enough they would surely find a road, though, wouldn’t they? It just looked so far.
‘Please Rilke,’ said Jade. ‘There’s a house there, can’t we just ask them for some food or something?’
Rilke looked at the house and saw it, a flash of black behind one of the whitewashed walls. It vanished before she could make proper sense of it, but it was enough, she knew what it was. Her blood seemed to freeze inside her.
‘Schiller!’ she yelled, turning to her brother, seeing more black shapes rise from the crops, wearing helmets and holding rifles. There were too many to count, all advancing on them. How had they found them?
‘Don’t move!’ someone shouted. ‘We will open fire!’
They were approaching from all angles, streaming from behind the farmhouse, from the fields in both directions. She ran to Schiller, grabbing the collar of his shirt, shaking him so hard that more of his hair fell loose.
‘Kill them!’ she ordered, willing him to change. ‘Do it, little brother, now!’
‘Stay where you are,’ the voice barked again.
Schiller wailed, no sign of the fire in those big, wet, blinking blue eyes.
‘I can’t, I’m too ti—’
She slapped him, then slapped him again, harder, until he was looking at her.
‘I need you, little brother,’ she said. In a few seconds somebody was going to start shooting, or they would step over that line and turn into savages. Either way, if Schiller didn’t find his own fury they were dead. ‘I need you to change, right now, I need you to do what you do.’
The soldiers charged, sunlight glinting from their visors, from their weapons. Jade was on her knees, screaming, Marcus was crawling back towards the windmill on his hands and knees. There was only Schiller; poor, frightened, wretched, human Schiller.
‘Don’t fail me,’ she said, clutching his shirt tighter, squeezing the skin underneath until he winced.
‘On the floor, now!’ yelled the voice. ‘All of you!’
‘Don’t you dare fail me,’ her voice a scream as she shook him. He exploded into light, a second skin of blue flame rippling across his body, a concussive thump blasting her backwards, sending her tumbling head over feet. The air ruptured into that mind-numbing hum, so loud and so deep that it blotted out every other sound. Schiller hovered off the ground, the fire working its way up his neck, over his face, one wing pushing out of his back.
Something cracked. It’s gunfire, she realised with a laugh, you’re too late, you can’t hurt him now. But Schiller’s head jerked back, as though he had been hit by an invisible sledgehammer. The flame flickered off and he dropped to the ground, shrieking, clutching his face.
‘No!’ Rilke screamed, clawing her way back over the ground. ‘Schiller!’
He looked at her, the flame erupting again, so fierce now that she had to bury her head in her arms. She kept moving, reaching out for him, hearing another crack of gunfire, calling his name with everything she had. They couldn’t take him from her, not now, not ever. The world went dark and she looked again, saw him lying on his side, a gaping wound in his left temple.
It’s okay, Schiller, you’re going to be okay, I promise you, just kill them, please, kill them, and she couldn’t be sure if she had spoken the words or just thought them.
A bullet kicked up the dirt inches from her brother, then something thudded into his chest, bursting from his back in a fan of brilliant red, so bright that it didn’t seem real. Rilke screamed again, throwing herself over the last few feet, colliding with him, wrapping her hands around him, willing the creature inside to find its strength, to fight. And it did, Schiller once again detonating into cold fire. This time she clung on, holding him tight, trying to feed herself into him, to pass him every last ounce of strength she possessed.
He spoke, the word a sonic pulse that tore outwards, turning the windmill to a storm of dust, mixing men with mud until the field looked like an artist’s palette. But the cry faltered after a second, stuttering back into her brother’s soft voice. He whined, blood pumping from his head, dripping on her, like boiling water after the chill of the fire. The flames rippled back and forth over his skin, unable to catch hold, his eyes blazing then black, blazing then black, a stalling jet engine.
She held him to her as the soldiers advanced. The ones at the front were already turning, dropping their guns and reaching out for them, their faces slack, their minds broken by the Fury. Others were still shooting, the air alive with burning lead. Oh God we’re dead, we’re dead, we’re dead, and she hated them so much, hated the humans, hated herself for being so weak. It couldn’t end like this, not now, not when they had so much to do. Why won’t you wake up! she howled at the angel inside her. Where are you? WHERE ARE YOU?
Another bullet hit Schiller, taking a chunk from his shoulder. This time he screamed with pain, the fire blazing back on. His wings punched from his back, sweeping down and lifting him up inside a tornado of dust. He spoke again, the word-but-not-a-word a tsunami of sound that tore across the field, unknitting the soldiers into clouds of ash that held their shapes for a moment, as if not quite understanding what had happened, before fading. But still they came, from every direction, shouting, shooting, too many to fight, just too many of them.
Like at the rave, she thought, remembering the first night that the Fury had almost taken them. A field just like this, only at night, an army of people trying to pull her to pieces, the man with the orange gloves, his fingers tight around Schiller’s throat. They had survived then, they had escaped, they had somehow moved themselves.
But how? How had they done it?
Our fingers touched and we knocked loose the
stars.
She looked at Schiller, and he seemed to know what she was thinking. The fire paled and he slumped back, falling out of life, but she held him to her, saw Jade next to them, reaching out, saw Marcus running back, the knowledge of what they were about to do somehow in his eyes – don’t leave me. He skidded into them, one hand on Rilke, one hand on the boy who burned, one hand on the frozen kid beside him; Jade clutched her arm; Schiller roared, engulfed them all in cold fire, and the world came apart.
This time she knew what to expect, the sensation that life was a rug that had been pulled from under her feet. She gritted her teeth against the sudden rush and lurch of it, managing to keep her eyes open. A shockwave of energy blasted outwards from where they were standing, then the field was ripped away with such force that Rilke’s scream didn’t have a chance to leave her lungs.
An instant later, life found them again, wrapped them in its fist as if furious that they had found a way loose. The world reformed with the sound of a million prison doors shutting at once, locking them back inside. Rilke leant forward, a stream of milk-white vomit blasting from her mouth, jetting over tarmac. She wiped away the tears with a trembling hand, seeing that they were on a narrow country road. Woodland shielded them on one side, a high, grassy bank on the other, but she could hear the soft pop of distant gunfire. A rain of embers drifted down around them, dancing on the breeze.
She turned at the sound of retching, seeing Jade and Marcus spray puke over the road. Only Schiller was motionless, once again just a boy, just her brother. Blood pooled beneath him, looking black against the grey. She pressed her hand against the wound in his chest and it spilled through her fingers. It was his blood. They’d shared the same womb, and that made it her blood too, one and the same. She pushed down with her other hand, trying to clamp the wound shut. He didn’t respond, he lay there and stared at the great big blue sky overhead, his pale eyes darting back and forth as if he read a truth there.
‘What the hell just happened?’ said Marcus, trying to get to his feet and falling on his rump. ‘Where are we?’
‘Schiller?’ said Rilke, ignoring the other boy. ‘Can you hear me?’
If he could, he showed no sign of it. His breaths were shallow, gulping, and pink bubbles popped on his lips when he exhaled. His body juddered, stalling, and the sobs escaped Rilke before she could stop them. Her tears were so warm that she thought she might be crying blood, but when they splashed on her brother’s face they were just tears.
‘Little brother,’ she said, smoothing down his hair, ignoring the clumps that came away on her sticky red fingers. ‘I know you must feel like you’re going to die. But you’re not. I want you to listen to me, listen well. I know how to save you.’ That was a lie, of course; she didn’t know anything. ‘I need you to take us somewhere, like you just did. I need you to take us to the man in the storm. I think he can fix you.’
Schiller’s body shook again, a soft tremor deep inside him like an earthquake beneath the ocean. He rolled his eyes towards her, their colour almost totally drained, and his lips twitched into an almost word.
‘What?’ she asked, running her finger down his cheek.
‘I . . . can’t . . .’
‘You can, Schiller,’ she said, trying to lock the sobs inside her chest where they broke painfully against her ribs. ‘You’re strong, much stronger than you think, much stronger . . . So much stronger than I ever let you believe. You’re my brother, we’re made of the same things, you and I; anything I can do you can do too.’
The gunfire in the distance had stopped, but she could make out the rumble of a helicopter. It wouldn’t be long before the soldiers found them. She took Schiller’s hand, kissing his fingers.
‘Do this for me, little brother,’ she said. ‘Take us there. I know you can.’
‘She . . . she doesn’t want me to,’ he said.
Who? she almost asked before answering her own question. ‘Daisy.’ And the white heat inside her made her ears ring. She was talking to him now – how dare she – countermanding Rilke’s orders, burrowing into his mind and poisoning his thoughts.
‘Ignore her, Schill, she doesn’t love you like I do.’
At this, Schiller’s eyes brightened. He squeezed her hand as best as he was able. It was like being gripped by a bird claw, so brittle she worried his fingers might snap off.
‘I do love you, little brother, more than anything.’
‘I love you too,’ he managed, coughing more blood.
‘So do this for me.’
She gripped him hard, then looked up at Marcus and Jade.
‘I don’t want to,’ said Jade, shuffling away on her backside and shaking her head. ‘I can’t do it any more.’
‘They’ll kill you,’ Rilke said. It didn’t matter, though, they didn’t need her. Let them kill her, it would be one less sheep for Rilke to shepherd. Marcus placed a hand on Schiller, clutching her brother’s shirt with white-knuckled fingers. He took hold of the new boy’s arm, then nodded.
‘You can do it, Schill,’ he said.
Rilke closed her eyes, pictured the storm that raged over London, and the creature who sucked out the rot of the world with that huge, unending breath. Take us there, she thought, directing the words into Schiller’s head. Take us to him, I know you will. And she did. There was not a single doubt in her mind. This is why they were here. He would save Schiller, he would save all of them. He was their guardian angel.
Schiller nodded, then he spoke, and once again the universe – time and space and all the spinning orbits of life – had no choice but to let them go.
Cal
East Walsham, 11.48 a.m.
Cal woke and assumed he was still dreaming, because Brick was sitting on the back pew of the church stroking Daisy’s hair. He was shivering against the cold of her, his skin almost blue, flecked with jewelled light from the windows. He must have sensed Cal waking, because he stood up, wiping the back of his hand over his nose.
‘She’s okay,’ he said. ‘You saw her.’
Not Was that a dream? Or Did we really meet there? Cal shook the last few scraps of sleep from his head, pushed himself up only to feel as though he had been thrown into a pool of razors. He grunted, trying not to move, the pain finally settling in a supernova behind his forehead.
‘Ow,’ he said. Understatement of the century. ‘Don’t suppose you saw any painkillers on your travels?’
‘There is a first-aid kit in the rectory, like I said,’ said the vicar. Doug. Cal had almost totally forgotten about him. He sat where he had promised to sit, rubbing his legs as if to keep the blood flowing. Cal nodded a thank you to him, then looked at Brick. It took the bigger boy a moment to realise what was being asked of him, and he shook his head.
‘I went last time,’ he said. ‘You go.’ He glanced down at Daisy once more, and Cal could see how much he loved her. Brick did a good job of trying to hide his feelings, but he was an awful liar. Although his face was made of stone, his eyes gave everything away. When all this was done, if they survived, Cal would have to challenge him to a game of poker. ‘Where was that?’ Brick asked, crossing the aisle and sitting on the pew opposite. ‘All the ice and stuff.’
‘Dunno,’ said Cal, trying once again to get to his feet. He braced his back against the wall, sliding up an inch at a time until he was more or less vertical. He thought back to the place he’d visited when he was asleep and already it had almost faded. There had been ice there, yeah, but other things too. And other people. ‘Rilke,’ he said. ‘She was there.’
Brick nodded, using one of his thumbnails to pick at the wood of the bench in front of him.
‘Least she’s okay,’ he said. ‘Daisy I mean. She’s in there, she seemed safe. I don’t think Rilke can do anything to her there, other than talk to her anyway.’
‘That’s bad enough,’ said Cal. ‘Girl is nuts.’
At this, Brick almost smiled. He gave up on whatever he was scratching at.
‘What now? Rilk
e said she’s going there, to the storm. You think she was telling the truth?’
Cal took a tentative step towards the door. Now that he was up and moving the pain seemed to have dulled, as if it had grown bored with him. He took another step, gently shaking his arms. His backside felt as though it had turned to the same rock as the church, as though he was slowly becoming one of the blank-eyed statues that lined the walls and tombs. His mum had always told him that sitting for too long on the ground would give him haemorrhoids. That’s just what he needed, on top of everything else, a bad case of the piles.
His mum. How had he gone for so long without thinking about her? She was right there in London, right in the heart of it. Swallowed whole by now, devoured by the beast. He shook the thought away, better not to think at all than think of that.
‘To be honest, Brick, I don’t care if she was telling the truth or not. You know what, if she goes over there, to whatever that thing is, then maybe we’ll get lucky. Maybe it will just swallow her up, her and her brother. Do us all a favour.’
Or maybe she’s right, he thought. Maybe the man in the storm is one of us, maybe she’ll ask for its help and bring it here, right to where we’re hiding. And he saw the clouds grow dark, the roof of the church peel away into the churning, raging mess of the sky, the man there, sucking the world into its mouth, obliterating everything. He shuddered so hard he almost fell, the church too dark, too cold, too quiet. He walked unsteadily to the door where a finger of sunlight beckoned him.
‘Be right back,’ he said. Stepping into the day was like stepping into a warm bath, the light a liquid gold that washed over him. The sun was right over his head, which meant they’d been asleep for a little while; a couple of hours maybe. There was still a whisper of smoke in the air, but there was nothing else to be heard in the little town, no sirens or shouts or screams. It was like nothing had ever happened. How amazing would that be? he thought. If it had all just gone away.
It took him a while to find the vicarage, as he set off down the wrong side of the church. The cemetery was large, and surrounded by a hedge of yew trees and something prickly, so dense that there might as well not have been a world beyond it. The little cottage was set amongst flowerbeds and more trees, almost sickeningly quaint. He pushed his way through the door, stopping when he heard voices up ahead.
The Storm Page 12