I grasped the old Bakelite doorknob and pushed. The door had been left locked but the wooden frame was rotting away; the lock fell off and crashed to the kitchen floor as the door opened with a wet smack. So much for stealth. I checked inside but there was nobody there so I stepped in and pushed the door closed behind me.
“Guria,” I said, loud but not shouting. “You there?” There was no reply so I made my way through the ground floor to the foot of the stairs. There was a skeleton lying sprawled across the bottom steps, the black stain that had seeped into the carpet around it all that remained to indicate it had ever borne flesh.
I stepped over it and climbed the stairs, which creaked alarmingly. They could go at any minute; this house was not a safe place to be, even without the threat of being shot. In the five years since The Cull, the elements had started to eat away at the infrastructure that civilisation had left behind. The endless persistence of water, probing every crevice and crack, with no houseproud DIYers to hold it at bay with supplies from Homebase, had started gradually eating away the houses and schools, shops and offices, and all the places we’d built to shelter us from the cold. There was no-one still trying to live by scavenging the scraps of what was left behind — it had all been corrupted by time.
I reached the landing and spoke again.
“Guria, you there?”
There was no response from behind the door to the front bedroom, which was pushed to. Had I miscounted, got the wrong house?
I pushed the door and stepped inside.
“Guria?” I said softly.
I heard a crash in the distance and the sound of a car horn.
The boy was crouched at the window, still facing the street, grasping the sniper rifle. I could see he was breathing.
“Guria, you okay?” I stepped forward.
He turned his head, as if finally registering that I was there. He was white as a ghost, pupils dilated, staring into the middle distance. He was in shock.
“Oh, hi Sir,” he said, as if from the bottom of a deep well. “I just shot someone.”
“I noticed.”
“His head kind of went pop.”
“Yeah, they do that. Good shot, by the way.”
“Like a melon.”
“Hmm. Can you pass me the rifle?”
“Oh, do you want a go?” He stood up and turned, holding the rifle out to me.
“No, get away from the window!”
But it was too late. He turned sharply, as if he’d heard something, and then Guria, silhouetted in the window, looked down in puzzlement at the arrow shaft sticking out of his chest.
“Oh,” he said, and dropped dead at my feet.
The Rangers weren’t our enemy. This was all a horrible misunderstanding. There was no need for this to go any further.
I knew all this.
But I looked at the dead child lying at my feet, with his wide eyes staring at the ceiling as his brain slowly cooled and died, and I felt a hard cold certainty in my chest.
Calmly, I reached down, picked the rifle up and raised it to my shoulder. Keeping three steps back from the window, hidden by the shadows of the room, I raised the powerful sight to my eye and switched through the options until I hit the heat sensor. And there he was, the man who’d shot a thirteen year-old boy who’d been my responsibility.
Lurking in the shadows of the bedroom directly facing me, he had no technology to aid his sniping. He felt confident, secure in the murk.
I took careful aim.
“Not a mercy killing this time, Nine Lives,” said the voice in my head that had remained silent for two long years.
“No,” I replied out loud; the first time, I think, I ever answered him audibly. I squeezed the trigger, putting a high velocity round through the man’s heart. He stayed upright for nearly ten seconds before he crumpled like a discarded puppet.
Confident that the immediate danger was past, I stepped forward and scanned the eerily quiet street. At one end the snatchers were emerging from the schoolyard gate, rifles and shotguns raised, looking bewildered, trying to work out what the fuck had just happened. At the other end the car horn still blared, and I saw a wisp of smoke drifting across the road mouth, evidence of whatever accident Dad had driven into.
There was no sign of any of the other Rangers. I assumed they were all hiding on the same side of the street as me. But the snatchers presented a tempting target. There were five of them now, in plain view.
I sighted on the rearmost. The cold hatred in my chest was still there, lending me an almost supernatural calm.
“Oh this is good. I like this,” said the voice.
I counted to three and then caressed the trigger once before letting fly. Within five seconds four of the snatchers were lying on the ground — head shot, chest, chest, head. They lay on the cobbles, blood pooling and mingling, running to the drains. The last one standing was left alone, surrounded by the corpses of his colleagues.
“Let him sweat,” said the voice.
I held my fire. The man didn’t know what to do. He was waiting for the inevitable kill shot, shaking in terror. A dark stain spread from his crotch as he wet himself. He dropped his gun and raised his hands, staring left and right, desperately trying to find me, as if locating me would allow him to appeal directly for clemency.
It took more than a minute for him to decide to turn his back and run. I let him take two steps before I shot the cobbles at his feet. He stopped and fell to his knees then shuffled around to face down the street towards me again. He was crying, hands pressed together in supplication, his chin wobbling as he screamed for mercy.
I let him go on like this for a minute or two, regarding him dispassionately like I would an ant underneath a magnifying glass on a hot day.
Then I blew his heart out through the back of his chest.
“Phew. I don’t know about you, Nine Lives,” said the voice in my head. “But I’ve got a blue steel boner that a cat couldn’t scratch.”
I smiled; so did I. To my surprise, I was quite glad Mac was talking to me again.
That should have been the first clue that I’d crossed some kind of line.
I went down on one knee and leaned over Guria. I gently closed his eyes and brushed away a lock of hair that had fallen across his face.
“Sorry,” I whispered.
My business here was done. I had three more Rangers to hunt down. I got to my feet, turned on my heels and stared straight down the shaft of an arrow, notched and ready to fly.
“Drop it, you sick motherfucker,” said the Ranger.
CHAPTER FIVE
THERE’S A HAND shaking me, but I shrug it off and turn over, trying to go back to sleep.
“Jane, you need to wake up.” The voice is soft but urgent, and the shaking resumes. I try to swat them away. I hear another voice saying “for God’s sake,” then feel a sudden sharp sting as someone slaps me across the face. I’m instantly wide awake. My head hurts like hell and there’s something wrong with my nose. I don’t even need to feel it to know that it’s broken again.
I’m lying on a very smelly blanket on what feels like a camp bed. It’s cold in here and the bright sun is streaming through the windows straight into my eyes. I take a moment to adjust.
“Welcome back,” says Tariq as he bleeds into focus next to me.
The best I can offer as reply is a vague mumble that sounds like a question.
“Back in the compound. The school,” says John, behind me. “There was a convoy of snatchers coming to pay a visit here this morning. Reckon they were coming to collect this month’s cargo. Three trucks loaded with kids and heavily guarded.”
“And muggins here drove into them headfirst.”
“I wasn’t expecting oncoming traffic,” says John. “There’s not exactly a major congestion problem these days.”
I turn to look at John. Every tiny motion of my head hurts. When he swims into focus I see a huge livid rip across his forehead.
“Ouch,” I whisper.
He winces, seemingly more embarrassed than hurt. “Yeah. Steering wheel. Knocked me cold for a while.”
“And the kids? Hang on,” I say, suddenly outraged. “Was it you who bloody slapped me?”
“They’re fine,” he says, ignoring my protest. “A bit shaken, but they’re back in the main hall while the snatchers try to piece together what happened here. Someone took out all their people. They were lying in front of the gate when we walked in. Sniper, I think.”
“Guria? Lee?”
“If I had to guess, I’d say Lee.”
“How many?”
“Five.”
“Jesus. He shot five of them when we’d already left?”
John nods and somehow manages to resist saying, “I told you so.”
“Anyway,” he says, and I can tell it’s an effort. “We can’t worry about him now. Jane, one of the snatchers seemed to recognise you…?”
“Yeah. I met him about three years ago. He was part of a child trafficking ring near the school. I shut them down and took him prisoner. I was going to interrogate him and find out where the kids were going, but Operation bloody Motherland turned up and arrested me instead. They let him go.”
By now my eyes have adjusted and I can see we’re in what must have once been a classroom. There are a couple more camp beds against the wall and some discarded clothes and tins of food. This must be where three of the snatchers sleep. Slept.
I sit up, trying to ignore the pain in my head. I reach for my sidearm, but of course it’s gone. So has the knife in my boot.
“They were pretty thorough,” says Tariq, brandishing the stump where his hook should be.
The door opens and two men stand silhouetted against the rising sun. “Miss Crowther. What a surprise.”
I recognise him from Olly’s compound, the day Operation Motherland turned up and ruined my life. “Hello Bookworm. How’s it hanging?”
He steps forward and grabs me by the hair, yanking me to my feet and dragging me from the room. Tariq and John make to intervene, shouting protests, but the other man fires a warning shot over their heads and they stand back.
I am dragged down the corridor towards the main hall and thrown, head first, through the swing doors. I crash to the floor, my vision blurring from the intensity of the migraine. But I don’t hit hard wood. Instead, my hands and then my right shoulder crash into something soft, yielding and wet. I recoil, my hands sticky with blood. I’ve been thrown onto a pile of bodies, six in all.
I make to stand but I feel a boot on my shoulder, pushing me down. Then knees in my back and a hand on the back of my head, pushing my face into the gaping wound in the back of one of the dead snatchers. I gag.
“Who the fuck are you?” says a voice that I don’t recognise.
I don’t reply. The hand pushes my face deep into the gore. I feel my cheek scraping against a jagged edge of shattered bone. Christ, this guy’s got a huge hole in him. That new sniper rifle is vicious.
“I won’t ask again.”
“I’m Jane Crowther. Pleased to meet you,” I say, trying not to get blood in my mouth.
“You’re sure this is her?” he asks. “She shut down Olly’s supply line?”
“Yes, boss,” I hear Bookworm reply.
“So what are you?” asks the man in a thick Scottish accent. “Some kind of vigilante?”
“Just a concerned citizen.”
“Who goes around massacring people.”
“Who goes around rescuing children from kidnappers.”
He snorts, derisively. “We’re not kidnappers, miss. We’re saving these kids. Aren’t we, boys?” There’s a chorus of muted giggles, although one guy looks uncomfortable, as if offended.
“Saving them from what?”
“Eternal damnation. Apparently.”
“It doesn’t do to mock the Abbot, boss,” says the uncomfortable one, threateningly. The boss nods, suddenly serious.
“You’re right, of course, Jimmy,” he says solemnly, then winks at me, humouring his colleague. “Anyway, love, we’ve got you and your two blokes. How many more of you are there?”
“Enough.”
He shoves my head hard into the wound and suddenly I can’t breathe, my mouth and nose blocked by soggy meat. He literally rubs my face in it, then lets go and stands back. I fling myself backwards, gasping for air, scrabbling away from the obscene mound of carcasses. I catch a glimpse of the children, huddled in the corner of the hall, watching wide-eyed, before I kneel and throw up, heaving long and hard until there’s nothing left and I feel wretched and hollow.
I’m still kneeling there with my eyes closed, trying to quell the stomach spasms, when I hear his voice in my ear, speaking softly.
“Finished?”
I look up at him, and am surprised to see how handsome he is. I spit a potent mix of vomit and blood into his matinee idol blue eyes. He just laughs and backhands me, sending me sprawling.
As I lie there, waiting for a bullet to end me, I hear Bookworm say “I reckon Spider will want to talk to her,” and my vision blurs, my blood feels like ice in my veins, my head swims and I begin to tremble.
He’s alive.
“What did you say?” I rasp, eventually.
“I said our boss will want to talk to you.”
“His name. You said his name.”
“Yeah.” Bookworm sounds confused.
“What was his fucking name?” I yell.
“Spider,” says Movie Idol, curious in spite of himself. If his reaction is anything to go by, I must have gone as white as a sheet.
“Spider,” I say. “Spider.” And then I can’t stop saying his name, it pours out of me in a hysterical flood of jumbled syllables. “Spider. Spider. Spider. Spider. Spider. Spider. Spider. Spider. Spider…”
He slaps me again and I fall silent. I barely even know where I am. All I can see is that face. All I can hear is that voice. All I can feel is the sick ache in my stomach as my brother looks down in surprise at…
“Yes,” I say quietly, rising to my feet. “Yes, I think he will want to talk to me. I certainly want to talk to him.”
Movie Idol narrows his eyes and smiles. “You got history with the big man?”
I nod.
“Fine, you just bought yourself a ticket to London.” He turns to address the gaggle of gunmen. “Put her and the kids in the lorry.”
Two guys step forward and herd us towards the fire escape. As I step outside I hear Movie Idol giving a final order.
“Oh, and kill those other two fuckers.”
I try to turn and protest, but the tide of children sweeps me out into the playground.
There’s nothing I can do.
We’re herded through the playground and out the front gate into the street. Two big container lorries are waiting. Both have their rear doors open, revealing hordes of terrified children huddled together for warmth. There are six men with guns standing around the trucks, both preventing the children from running and keeping an eye out for attack. Every one of them is a plum target for a good sniper, but for some reason Lee isn’t taking the shot. Suddenly I feel guilty — the only thought I’ve spared for Lee since the Rangers attacked has been to worry about his mental state; it hasn’t occurred to me that he might be lying dead in one of these houses.
I turn to look back at the school, where John and Tariq are being executed, and I curse myself for being such a fool. Who the hell did we think we were to come charging in here and take these guys on? We’re… Christ I don’t know what we are but we certainly aren’t soldiers, or even police. It’s ironic that we managed to take out the entire US Army two years ago, but now we’ve been undone by a bunch of child snatchers in lorries.
Our escorts chivvy us into the back of the foremost lorry. As I step up to the ramp I slip in a pile of what smells like human shit. There are no seats in here, and a couple of buckets sit by the doors, empty but reeking of effluent. This must be the kids’ toilets, and they’ve just emptied th
em in the street. The smell of unwashed bodies, open toilets and fear is overwhelming.
“Sorry it’s a bit cramped,” says the snatcher next to me, sarcastically. “But your man wrote off the third lorry, so we’ve had to shove its cargo into these two.”
THE MASS OF kids shuffle up to make room for us new arrivals. Just as I sit down I hear two muffled shots from inside the school.
I sit in that lorry, surrounded by despairing children who I am powerless to help, leaving behind two dead friends and a missing lover, on my way to be reunited with the cruellest sadist I’ve ever met, and I begin, to my shame, to cry.
As the lorry doors swing shut I catch a glimpse of Bookworm leaving the school, scurrying to the rearmost lorry, waving to his boss at the front to tell him the job is done. Then the doors close with a heavy bang and we’re plunged into darkness.
CHAPTER SIX
“I’M NOT YOUR enemy.”
The Ranger didn’t waver for an instant. “I said drop it.”
We stared at each other for a moment, as I considered my options and he got ready to skewer me. I dropped the gun and kicked it over to him.
“Useless at close range anyway,” I said.
He looked down at Guria’s body and I saw the shock on his face.
“But he’s…”
“Just a kid. Yeah. Shot him anyway, though, didn’t you?”
“Never. Not to kill, anyway. Did he move just before he was hit?”
I nodded.
He flashed me a look I couldn’t quite interpret then backed onto the landing and gestured me downstairs.
Five minutes later we were in the kitchen of another house, further down the street, where the Rangers had regrouped. The other four kids were there too, rounded up like I was.
As I entered the house, one of the kids — I think his name was Wallis — said: “Hey, Sir, where’s Guria?”
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