The Dead

by Charlie Higson

  ‘I need this,’ he said, pulling it from its scabbard.

  As he straightened up, he saw the father with the flattened nose coming right at him, arms raised. Ed slashed wildly at him and he went down in a spray of blood. One of the mothers was right behind. Again Ed chopped the sword through the air. The mother hissed and collapsed to her knees, clutching her bloody face.

  Ed could hear a horrible screeching, keening sound, high and angry, like some huge hungry bird of prey attacking.

  He realized he was making the sound. He had a blood lust on him, a killing frenzy. He was no longer thinking about what he was doing. He wasn’t thinking about anything. He had become a mindless animal. Outside he was this yelling, screaming monster, and inside there was that weird calm, as if he had become two people, one acting, one watching.

  And he somehow knew that he would never be the same again. The blade rose and fell, rose and fell, glinting as it cut through the air.

  Almost in slow motion a father came at him and Ed plunged the sword into his belly. The flesh sucked at the blade, holding it hard, and as Ed tried to pull it free the father fell sideways and twisted it out of his grip.

  Ed didn’t stop; he ran to Bam and got hold of an attacking mother by the hair. He wrenched her head back so hard he felt something snap and carried on, kicking, gouging, snarling at the sickos, prising them loose one by one and tossing them aside. At last Bam was up, scratched and bloody but all right. Encouraged by Ed’s efforts he was off again, charging the sickos and crunching into them.

  Ed heard a gun shot. Jack was fending off another attack. The sickos had evidently singled him out as being the easiest target. Ed ran over just as a fat young mother got to him. He took her by the face, digging his fingers in. Her skin was thick with boils, and blood and pus ran down her neck as she twisted and writhed and thrashed about.

  Jack shot at a father who was getting too close and Ed threw the mother hard against the van, knocking the fight out of her. Then he went back for the sword and at last managed to wrench it out of the dead father.

  He turned, sword raised …

  But it was all over.

  There were only three sickos left now. Two big fathers and a teenager. They looked at the carnage and had enough sense to get away. As they hobbled off, Jack rolled out from behind the van and fired off another three shots, taking down the teenager.

  Bam stood there, jeering at the fathers as they scarpered. He was exhausted, his clothes torn and spotted with blood, but there was a look of crazy joy on his face.

  ‘Yeah, you useless buggers!’ he yelled. ‘Get lost! You can’t take us! We owned you. We’re kings of the streets!’

  Ed whooped and grinned at Bam who went into a Maori war dance.

  ‘That was easy,’ said Ed, drunk with happiness and relief.

  Bam stopped dancing and rested his hands on his knees, laughing too much to carry on.

  ‘Come and help me with Jack,’ said Ed.

  ‘OK.’ Bam straightened up and as he did so another father stepped out from behind the hedge of somebody’s front garden. Ed saw a flash as he swung his arm at the back of Bam’s head.

  Bam grunted and fell face down on the pavement with a horrible thud.

  It was Greg.

  He held a bloody meat cleaver in one hand and a large bundle under his arm. There were blisters on his face and his mouth was ringed with scarlet. There was a look of unthinking madness in his eyes.

  He took a step towards Ed.

  ‘Get out of the way!’ Jack yelled, and Ed instinctively ducked to one side.

  Jack aimed the pistol and pulled back hard on the trigger four times.

  There were four pitiful clicks, like a child’s cap gun, but nothing else.

  ‘Ed?’ Jack yelled. ‘I need more bullets!’

  ‘They’re all in my bag,’ Ed replied, but even as he said it he knew there wasn’t time to get at them. Greg was walking fast towards him, legs wide, the meat cleaver swinging in long, vicious arcs.

  Ed realized he still had the sword. He lunged at Greg but misjudged the distance. The tip of the blade raked across his chest, slitting open his jacket and shirt but doing little harm.

  Greg didn’t even pause. Just kept on coming.

  He swiped wildly downwards and as Ed jumped back he felt the cleaver swish past his cheek.

  He felt a sudden weird attack of dizziness. His cheek felt hot and there was a sharp pain, like a wasp sting. He put his hand to his face. It was drenched with blood and more blood was already pouring off his chin and on to his jacket.

  Ed felt anger rise inside him, filling the emptiness. He moved in and lunged again. It was either luck, or some kind of dumb reaction, but Greg managed to bring his cleaver up just in time. The sword hit it with a clang that jarred Ed’s arm. The blade shattered, but knocked the cleaver to one side.

  Ed didn’t wait. He dropped the useless sword and ran at Greg. It was like running into a solid wall. Ed was winded. Somehow, though, he had got Greg’s wrist and was holding the cleaver at bay. Greg didn’t seem to want to drop whatever he was carrying under his other arm, so with his free hand Ed was able to go for his throat.

  Up close Greg stank like a sewer. His body felt hot and damp. His breath came straight from an abattoir. He was breathing through his mouth, and pink-flecked saliva foamed at his lips.

  He may have been sick but he was still stronger than Ed who was losing his grip on Greg’s wrist.

  Then Jack was with him, making a grab for the cleaver.

  ‘No, Jack!’ Ed yelled. ‘You’re hurt. I can do this.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Jack.

  Just then Greg’s arm slipped out of Ed’s hand and the cleaver came round. Jack gasped and fell back, but Greg was thrown off balance. Ed let go of his neck and slammed the heel of his palm into Greg’s windpipe. Greg coughed and went limp, dropping his weapon. As he staggered backwards, taking tiny, dainty steps, Ed scrabbled to pick up the fallen cleaver.

  His fingers closed around the slippery handle and he twisted round to face Greg.

  He was standing there, fighting for breath, wide open, an easy target.

  Ed didn’t have to think twice. The killing rage was on him again. He moved in …

  And then he saw what Greg was carrying under his arm, what had looked at first like the sort of pitiful bundle of rags that a street person would carry around.

  Only it wasn’t rags. It was a small dead body.

  ‘Liam?’ said Ed.

  It was like a switch had been thrown in Greg’s head. The madness was gone and for a moment he was human again. He looked down at the creased, purple face of his son and wailed in horror.

  Then he looked at Ed, shook his head and ran off down the road towards the common.

  Ed ran a few paces after him, then stopped. He wanted to follow him, to try to finish it, but he couldn’t leave his friends. There might be other sickos around.

  He went back. Jack was lying curled up into a ball, clutching his stomach. But, thank God, he was still alive. Ed knelt down and put a hand to him.

  ‘Jack?’

  ‘He cut me, Ed. He cut me open.’

  ‘I’ll get you home.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Jack grunted. ‘Too stubborn to die, remember? But how’s that big idiot, Bam? Is he OK? I want to tell him I don’t blame him. It wasn’t his fault.’

  Ed went over to Bam. It was no good. It was all crap. There were no happy endings. Nobody watching over them. Only misery and struggle. And what for? Good people died as well as bad.

  Greg’s cleaver had split open the back of Bam’s skull.

  He was gone.

  Ed sat down in the middle of the road and wept.

  54

  Jack was unconscious. He felt as heavy as two people, and Ed could hardly put one foot in front of the other as he staggered down the road with his friend on his shoulder. He’d figured the best thing would be to deal with Jack’s wounds when they reached the relative safety of his
house. It was too dangerous to stay out on the streets. It would be growing dark soon and then the sickos would emerge from their hiding places and go hunting for food. It had been fine at first. He’d managed to coax Jack back on to his feet, promising all the while that he would get him safely home, reassuring him, encouraging him, until eventually Jack had started walking.

  He’d been reasonably cheerful when they set off. He was able to talk and, although clumsy and weak, he could at least hold himself upright, but he’d gradually become vague and confused and finally he’d slumped against Ed, his feet dragging along the road. Now Ed was just pulling him along. He’d tried slapping him and yelling at him like they did in films, but it didn’t seem to do anything. Luckily Jack had given him pretty clear directions and an address before they’d set off again, but the journey seemed to be never-ending.

  Ed was really scared.

  Jack’s clothes were stained black from the bleeding, and his wounds were starting to smell. Ed’s hand around his ribs was slick with blood. He worried that holding him like this was tearing him open, but he had no choice.

  If they were attacked now, he doubted he could do much to defend his friend. He’d reloaded his pistol and it dangled from his other hand, growing heavier with each step. He longed to shove it back in its holster, or even throw it aside, but he knew he had to keep hold of it. It might be the only thing between him and a horrible death.

  He came to a junction and checked the street names.

  Thank God.

  They were there at last. A typically English street of semi-detached houses with pointy roofs, white painted porches with balconies over the top, and once-neat little front gardens behind low stone walls.

  ‘Come on, Jack,’ he panted. ‘Help me. You’re nearly home. Just take a step, yeah?’

  Now that the end was in sight Ed felt more exhausted than ever. This final leg was going to be the hardest. If only Jack would wake up and help him.

  ‘Look, this is your street,’ he said. ‘That’s your house up ahead … Come on, I’m not sure I can do this … Jack, walk, please walk, don’t give up on me. They’ll all be waiting for you. Your sisters, your mum and dad, they’re all there. I can see them at the door, waving, calling to you, come on, Jack, do it for them.’

  Something inside Jack’s brain must have been functioning, because he groaned and Ed felt him stirring in his arms. Then his feet no longer dragged. They searched for a footing, took a step, then another. He was weak and uncoordinated but he was walking again.

  Ed laughed and cried at the same time.

  ‘That’s it. Come on, Jack, that’s it.’ He looked at the house numbers as they passed. 67, 65, 63, 61 … Only another thirty to go. No, less, because this was the odd-numbered side of the street. Fifteen houses, fourteen …

  He looked round at Jack. His eyes were open, rolling in his head, but he was struggling to focus. He recognized the street.

  ‘You see,’ said Ed. ‘I told you I’d get you home. You can lie in your own bed again.’

  49, 47, 45, 43 …

  They were going unbearably slowly but they were still moving. Ed had all but forgotten his own wound, where Greg’s cleaver had sliced his face open. There hadn’t been time to do anything more than press a load of tissues against the cut. It was only when he put his hand up to wipe the sweat from his eyes that he felt the wad of paper still stuck there on the dried blood. As he tried to pull them away it sent a flash of pain through his head.

  It was nothing, he told himself, compared to Jack’s wounds.

  35, 33, 31 …

  They were there at last. Ed looked up at the house. The same as all the others. The cars parked outside in the road told him that this was an expensive street, though the houses weren’t that big.

  He dragged Jack up the front steps and let him flop down in the porch. He gently felt Jack’s neck and took hold of the bootlace, then fished the key out. He lifted it over Jack’s head and slipped the key into the lock. The door clicked open. It all felt so normal and familiar.

  He put the key back over Jack’s heart and then bent down to lift him up. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done. Jack wasn’t helping and Ed was very nearly done for. His back felt like it was going to snap. Somehow, though, he managed to haul his friend up and in through the door, which he kicked shut behind him. It was dark inside without electricity and the windows covered in grime, but there was just enough light to show that the house hadn’t been looted or trashed by anyone. It smelt stale and slightly rotten, but otherwise Ed might have simply been entering a locked-up house after a long holiday. His mum and dad had taken him to Australia for a month one Christmas to visit a cousin and when they’d got back the house had felt all stuffy and kind of dead.

  He pushed past a bike in the hallway, dumped Jack on the sofa in the sitting room and took a quick look around. There were two photos on the mantelpiece of Jack and his family, one was just him and his sisters, the other was of the whole family, standing smartly dressed in a big garden, maybe at a wedding. There was Jack, looking shy and awkward. He’d never liked having his photo taken. And there were his mum and dad just as Ed remembered them from the couple of times they’d met. His father wearing glasses, a bit bald but with a nice open face and broad grin. His mum, small and thin, a little tired-looking, her smile slightly strained.

  Both dead now probably.

  And as for Jack’s sisters? What was the chance that either of them would still be alive? Not his older sister. That was for sure. She would have been over fourteen when the disease broke out. Not necessarily dead, though, he supposed. Maybe just sick. Her pretty face covered in boils, her skin peeling …

  Ed went into the kitchen. He opened the fridge: inside was a putrid mass of green mould and fungus. He went through all the kitchen cabinets. Apart from pots and pans and plates they were empty. Anything edible had long gone.

  In a cupboard under the stairs, though, full of mops and brushes and a Hoover, he found a cardboard box hidden at the back, stuffed with cans.

  Jack’s folks must have stashed it away here. Ed pulled it out with a wild excited cry of triumph. Peaches, tomatoes, spaghetti hoops, frankfurters, meatballs, chick peas, broad beans. Ed realized he was actually drooling. He’d not had anything to eat since breakfast, and that hadn’t been much to write home about. They’d left the lorry in such a hurry none of them had thought to stock up on food.

  He opened a can of peaches and drained the liquid greedily before stuffing some of the fruit into his mouth.

  What was he thinking? This wasn’t his food.

  He raced in to tell Jack the good news. He found him at the mantelpiece, holding the family photograph, tears streaming down his face. Ed put an arm round him and hugged him, and Jack hugged him back.

  ‘Why is this happening, Ed?’

  ‘Don’t think about that,’ Ed whispered into his ear. ‘I’ve found some food, mate.’

  Jack feebly pushed him away, nodded, smiled. Ed slotted a peach slice between his lips, and Jack’s whole face lit up like a little kid given ice cream. He worked his jaws, dripping juice and bits of peach down his front.

  ‘I feel like someone in a cartoon,’ he said. ‘You know when they’ve been shot and they drink a glass of water and it all spurts out of little holes all over them.’

  He tried to laugh, but it hurt him too much and Ed helped him back to the sofa.

  ‘I need to look at you again,’ he said. ‘I need to sort out whatever Greg did to you and put some clean bandages on.’

  ‘Where’s Bam?’

  Ed didn’t know what to say, whether he should protect his friend. He felt numb and blank.

  In the end he simply said, ‘Bam’s dead.’

  Jack just said, ‘Oh,’ and closed his eyes. The conversation had worn him out and his brief rally was over.

  Ed lifted his shirt, dreading what he would find. It was awful. Greg’s cleaver had sliced through the original bandages just below Jack’s ribs. It was impossible
to tell how deep the wound was without prodding and probing and risking making it worse. Instead he set to with antiseptic and did what he could with the bandages, but he was no nurse.

  When he was done, he gave Jack some water and some more peaches. It seemed to revive him a little and he summoned the strength to speak. Although it was only one word.

  ‘Bedroom.’

  ‘Come on then.’

  Ed once again took Jack on his aching shoulder and they stumbled awkwardly across the room, back out into the hallway and over to the foot of the stairs.

  ‘D’you think you can make it up?’ Ed asked. Jack nodded and took hold of the banister.

  Up they went, step by agonizing step, Jack growing weaker all the way. They made it eventually, though. How long had it taken? Half an hour? An hour? Ed had no real sense of time any more. It was still light outside, though, so it couldn’t be that late.

  When they reached the landing, Jack was almost passed out again and Ed had to look around for any clues as to which might be the door to his room. One of them had a ‘KEEP OUT’ sign on it with a skull and crossbones dripping blood. How old had Jack been when he’d put it there, he wondered. For it must surely be Jack’s room. It wasn’t the sort of sign girls put up. He must have been maybe ten, younger even. Parents liked to hang on to ancient things.

  They groped their way along to the door and Ed pushed it open. A thin layer of dust covered everything but otherwise the room looked untouched.

  There was a narrow single bed along one wall, with a dark blue duvet on it. Above the bed was an old poster for Casino Royale; one corner had come away and was hanging down, a flattened lump of Blu-Tack stuck to it. Ed lowered Jack on to the bed and without thinking pushed the corner of the poster back up so that it stuck to the wall.

  He sat next to Jack and took in the rest of the room. It was a typical boy’s bedroom. There was a little desk, and a bookshelf. Old books mostly. Jack had been away from home at boarding school for the last couple of years. There was Harry Potter, Alex Rider, Melvin Burgess, Robert Muchamore. A stack of comics sat on the floor, a ‘Marvel Zombies’ on the top. Ed recognized the Kev Walker cover. He’d read that one. Enjoyed it. On either side of the door were a poster of Lady Gaga and a framed print of a piece of Banksy graffiti – the two guys from Pulp Fiction with bananas instead of guns. There was another shelf of trophies near the window, for football and cricket and swimming, even one for trampolining. And there – Ed’s heart snagged against his ribs – a photograph of the two of them, Jack and Ed, taken after the school team won a football tournament in Holland. Ed stood up and went over to take a closer look. He remembered when it had been taken so well. It was two years ago; they would both have been twelve. They looked so young, another lifetime. Ed had long hair back then. Jack looked happy and relaxed. The two of them stood with their arms round each other’s shoulders, smiling straight at the camera, not a worry in the world.