The Dead

by Charlie Higson

  And don’t forget Jordan Hordern and DogNut and Frédérique …

  God. Frédérique. What was he going to tell her? She really liked Jack. She’d come to rely on him. How could he break the news to her? She was most likely going to be tipped deeper into her own sadness.

  Ed wasn’t used to giving people bad news. Up until a few weeks ago there hadn’t really been anything bad in his life. Bad news was something that adults had to deal with. Not kids. Oh, yeah, he’d had a mate whose mum had died in a road accident. He’d left school. But it hadn’t really touched Ed. He’d soon forgotten about it. Now the sickness had forced them all to behave like adults. To take on adults’ worries and responsibilities.

  He stopped.

  The way ahead was completely blocked.

  He’d come to a railway bridge where there had been a train crash. Something had derailed an engine and it had tumbled off the bridge, dragging the lead carriages behind it and half demolishing the structure. There was a pile of mangled metal and bricks in the road. Two cranes stood nearby next to several emergency vehicles and there were bodies under tarpaulins, a few more still on the train. They’d all just been left there. Abandoned.

  No, not completely abandoned. Now that Ed looked closer he saw a bunch of sickos, squatting down, eating a corpse.

  They hadn’t spotted him yet, but he’d obviously have to go a different way. He checked his options and saw that more sickos were approaching from the direction he’d come. The only other route was along a side-road that branched off at a right angle, but that, too, was busy with people.

  He had to get off the street. He made a quick decision and darted into the front garden of one of the houses that lined the road. He dumped his bike behind the hedge. Even if any of the sickos did find it they wouldn’t know what to do with it. Keeping low, he checked out the building. Steps led up to the front door. If he went up them, though, he’d risk being seen. There was a wide bay window on the raised ground floor and beneath that a narrow basement window that overlooked a sort of shallow well below the level of the garden.

  That would have to do.

  He crawled over to it. It looked just big enough for him to fit through if he could get it open. He turned round, dropped on to his belly and kicked out a pane of glass, hoping the sickos wouldn’t be attracted by the noise. Then he slithered down into the well, reached through the broken section and lifted the latch. In a few seconds he had swung the window up and was crawling through the opening feet first.

  He lowered himself down until he was on solid ground, then quickly took up a position from where he could see out of the corner of the window.

  Sickos were passing on the street. Luckily none of them made a detour into the front garden. He’d got away with it. All he had to do now was sit it out until the coast was clear.

  He pulled his pistol out of its holster and rested against the wall, nose close to the glass. For the moment he was safe. He could rest, recharge his batteries that were being drained by the constant stress. He was so tired all the time.

  He closed his eyes and let out his breath in a long sigh. Then froze. There was an answering sigh. Then the sound of movement behind him. He hadn’t checked the room out properly when he’d climbed in backwards. It had been dark and he’d been concentrating on what was going on outside.

  Slowly he turned round, hardly daring to look. There was just enough light from the broken window to show him that he was in a large basement kitchen.

  And it was filled with people.

  They were lying on the floor, packed together, too many to count. Sickos. Hiding from the daylight. And they were starting to wake up, blinking in the gloom. The smell of smoke in the air had masked their stink, but now Ed became aware of it. A horrible toilet smell. And he could feel the heat coming off them. The one nearest to him belched and sat up, sniffing. He reached out towards Ed’s leg and he kicked him away. That caused a commotion and soon a gaggle of them were struggling to their feet.

  Ed thought about trying to climb back out of the window, but all the sickos around him were awake and clawing at his clothes now. They’d pull him down before he could get halfway.

  To the right, about five metres away, there was a staircase leading up to the next floor. Ed shoved a tall pockmarked father aside and set off towards it. A mother stood up, barring his way, and without thinking Ed put the pistol to her chest and pulled the trigger. The bang startled all the other sickos in the room, and for a moment they stopped. Ed seized his chance and ran for it, barging through the few remaining adults who blocked his path.

  He raced up the stairs and crashed through the door at the top into the hallway. He kept on moving until he reached the front door, then started fumbling with the various locks and chains that secured it. The sickos were evidently using some other way to get in and out of the house, but he didn’t have time to look for it. He could hear them coming up the stairs, their feet thudding on the wooden steps, their arms brushing against the walls. The last lock didn’t want to open, though, he obviously needed a key. He pulled at it and swore at it and battered the door violently.

  ‘Come on!

  It made no difference. He was stuck here.

  He turned round and fired off a shot at the lead sicko, who tumbled backwards. And then he had an idea.

  In how many films had he seen it done?

  Did it really work?

  He aimed his gun at the lock and pulled the trigger three times.

  The hallway was instantly full of flying bits of metal and splintered wood. A piece took a chunk out of his neck, but he hardly felt it.

  He tugged the handle, the remains of the lock fell away with a clatter and the door swung open.

  To hell with what was out there – anything was better than being trapped inside with a bunch of them. He leapt down the front steps, holstered his pistol, grabbed the bike and charged out into the street.

  There must have been twenty or thirty sickos, stretched right down the length of the road. They were a bad bunch, far gone, walking corpses, rotten and confused. But they were still a threat.

  The side-road was about fifty metres away. If Ed was quick, he might just make it. The sickos weren’t in a pack. They were mostly in ones and twos. There was a chance he could get round them.

  He got back into the saddle and stood on the pedals, swerving round a couple of warty-looking mothers, then careered through the middle of another group. He ignored two ancient fathers with no hair or teeth, who flailed at him with stick-thin arms as he passed. The side-road was approaching fast. He leant into the curve and pedalled hard.

  But as he turned the corner he saw nothing but more sickos, packed into this much narrower space. He skidded to a halt and thought about turning round. But the sickos from the main road were filtering down this way now. He was trapped.

  59

  If Ed had just carried on pedalling when he’d first rounded the corner, he might have been able to smash his way through the waiting sickos, but he’d waited too long now. They were bunching into a mob. There was nowhere to go in either direction.

  He dismounted and drew his pistol. Maybe he could just blast his way through? He was using up a lot of his ammunition. He’d wanted to save his bullets for an emergency.

  Hell, whichever way you looked at it, this was an emergency.

  He fired, keeping his arm as straight and steady as he could. Then fired again. And again. All the while wheeling his bike forward. His aim wasn’t brilliant. He clipped two of them, though, and the others stood there, not sure what to do. Not sure what was happening.

  Ed carried on walking and firing, his bike acting as a shield to his left. How many bullets in a clip? Ten? Twenty? What would he do when he ran out?

  He swore at the sickos.

  Although he was moving, he was only really getting deeper and deeper into the heart of the mob. They were closing in behind him as he passed, waiting for their moment. For when the shooting stopped.

  At last the g
un clicked empty and Ed reckoned it was all over.

  He swore again. Wished he had another weapon. Hated it to end like this.

  And then he saw an extraordinary sight. A column of schoolboys wearing red blazers and carrying clubs, marching in step down the road, with packs on their backs. Like a unit off to fight in the Napoleonic Wars.

  The column was two wide and maybe ten deep. The boy at their head, with jet-black hair and chalk-white skin sprayed with freckles, was shouting orders. The boys stayed in formation, and as they reached the rear of the bunched-up sickos they started to lash out and hack their way through to Ed.

  Using his bike as a battering ram, Ed forced his way towards them.

  ‘This way!’ called the boy at their head, pointing to a walkway between two rows of houses. Ed hurried, shoving sickos away to either side. When he got to them, the boys closed ranks round him, forming a protective wall. Then, still keeping their discipline, they backed away down the walkway, leaving the confused sickos behind.

  The boys followed the walkway through a small housing estate, clubbing a few stray sickos as they went, and soon found their way on to a relatively clear street where they stopped to get their bearings.

  Ed was so relieved and amazed and confused he didn’t know what to say; in the end all he managed was a pathetic ‘Thanks’.

  ‘We heard gunshots,’ said the boys’ leader. ‘And we know that Strangers can’t use them.’

  ‘Strangers?’

  ‘That’s what we call the people with the disease. I suppose everyone calls them something different.’

  ‘Why Strangers?’

  ‘We were always taught to be careful of strangers.’

  ‘Stranger danger?’ said Ed.

  ‘Exactly.’

  Ed looked at the boys who were standing staring at him in silence.

  ‘Where the hell did you all come from, anyway?’ he asked.

  ‘We’re from St Hilda’s in Surrey,’ said the leader.

  ‘St Hilda’s school?’ Ed grinned, which sent a spasm of pain up his wounded cheek. ‘I know St H. We used to play you lot at rugby. And football. I’m from Rowhurst.’

  ‘Rowhurst? God, I know you buggers!’ Another boy stepped forward, a big, keen-looking guy with fluffy hair, his shirt-collar turned up and sticking out of the top of his jumper.

  ‘You’re a Rowie, are you?’ he went on. ‘We came over in the autumn term. Good game too. You had a killer prop forward. Guy called Bam. Do you know him?’

  ‘Of course!’ Ed cried excitedly, and then a twinge of sadness got him and he bit his lip.

  ‘What about Johnno?’ said the St Hilda’s boy. ‘Piers?’

  ‘I know them all,’ said Ed quietly.

  ‘Are they with you?’

  ‘No,’ said Ed. ‘They were. They …’

  A lump formed in his throat, stopping him from saying anything else. The boy obviously got it, though, and didn’t press Ed any further.

  ‘Bad luck.’ He stuck out his hand. ‘I’m Pod, by the way. What’s your name?’

  ‘Ed Carter.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Ed.’

  ‘Ed Carter?’ A boy with a big nose jostled to the front of the crowd. ‘I know you. Andy Thomas,’ he said, patting his chest. ‘I remember you from the football team.’

  ‘Yeah, hi,’ said Ed, smiling at Andy, although in truth he couldn’t remember him at all.

  ‘You all right? That looks bad,’ said Andy, pointing to Ed’s cheek.

  Ed shrugged. ‘I think it is bad,’ he said.

  ‘So, are you just wandering the streets or do you have a safe place to go somewhere?’ said the boys’ leader.

  ‘Safe place,’ said Ed. ‘I was trying to get there. The Imperial War Museum, actually.’

  The leader looked interested.

  ‘Could you take us there?’

  ‘I could,’ said Ed, ‘but I’m not in charge. The guy who runs the place is … Well, he’s not very welcoming. He’s got a good set-up and he doesn’t want to spoil it. He doesn’t really want any newbies.’

  ‘I’ll deal with that when we get there,’ said the boy confidently. ‘I’m David, by the way, David King. I was head of the junior school at St Hilda’s. Now, shall we get going?’

  ‘Sure.’ Ed dug out his A to Z and checked it quickly. The museum was much nearer than he’d realized.

  They set off, Ed wheeling his bike at the head of the column with David. There were black smuts being blown on the wind now, which had grown even fiercer, and hotter. Ed had to raise his voice to be heard over the noise of it.

  ‘Have you walked all the way from your school?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. There were quite a lot more of us when we started.’

  Ed looked around at the matching red blazers.

  ‘You haven’t picked anyone else up on the way?’

  David smiled. ‘Your chap who runs the museum,’ he said, ‘he’s got the right idea. Look after your own. May I see your gun?’

  ‘Sure.’ Ed passed it to him.

  ‘A gun is a very valuable thing,’ said David, weighing it in his hand.

  ‘You’re telling me.’

  Ed looked at David. He had a very serious, slightly snooty expression. It was quite funny in a way, on a boy his age, but Ed knew better than to laugh at him.

  ‘I get it,’ he said, a note of amusement in his voice. ‘You weren’t trying to rescue me, you were trying to rescue the gun!’

  ‘Something like that,’ said David. ‘But now you can help us at the War Museum, so it’s worked out quite well all round, really, hasn’t it? We can get you there safely and you can get us in.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ said Ed. ‘But there may be certain conditions.’

  ‘I’m good at negotiating.’ David sounded very sure of himself.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yes. I suppose, really, I should keep this as a reward for saving your life.’

  David aimed the pistol at Ed. Ed smiled, not sure if David was being playful but giving him the benefit of the doubt.

  ‘I went through a lot to get that gun.’ Ed kept his voice flat and calm. ‘So, I’m afraid I’m not going to give it up.’ He gently took the gun back off David and put it in his holster. ‘You can have this bike instead, though, if you want.’

  ‘No thanks,’ said David. ‘I could have shot you then, you know?’ he added.

  ‘No you couldn’t,’ said Ed, forcing another smile though it badly hurt his face. ‘It’s not loaded.’

  60

  ‘You’ve got to come and see this.’ DogNut was standing at the main doors looking out at the open ground in front of the museum. ‘It’s the bloody red army.’

  The boy who was on guard duty came over to join him and he laughed at what was going on outside.

  David was marching up the pathway at the head of his column with Ed at his side. The St Hilda’s boys were keeping in perfect step and singing as they went.

  The column marched right up to the doors, Ed’s bike bumping up the steps.

  ‘Hey!’ Ed called out. ‘Open up! It’s me.’

  DogNut came out to meet him.

  ‘Where’d you pick this lot up, brother?’ he asked. ‘You got yourself an escort?’

  ‘I needed one.’

  DogNut looked at Ed’s ruined face with a pained expression. ‘Yow,’ he said. ‘You want to get that seen to.’

  ‘Yeah, I will,’ said Ed, moving towards the doors. ‘Let’s go inside. I need to sit down.’

  DogNut put up a hand.

  ‘You know Jordan’s rules,’ he said, and nodded towards David and the others. ‘They can’t come in.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be so silly,’ said David, and before DogNut could do anything he pushed past him and took his boys inside.

  DogNut turned to Ed, looking panicked.

  ‘Ed!’

  ‘I’m not responsible for them, DogNut.’

  ‘You brought them here.’

  ‘Had no choice, really.’


  ‘Hold up.’ DogNut looked puzzled. ‘Where’s Jack and Bam? Ain’t they with you?’

  Ed followed David inside. ‘No,’ he said bluntly over his shoulder as DogNut hurried after him.

  ‘What do you mean?’ said DogNut. ‘Where they at? They coming back?’

  ‘No,’ said Ed. ‘They’re not coming back.’

  ‘You mean they –’

  ‘DogNut!’ Ed snapped. ‘They’re dead, all right?’

  ‘Shit …’

  Inside the museum it was chaos. David’s boys were milling around and Jordan’s guards were shouting at them.

  ‘Ed, you got to sort this out, man,’ said DogNut.

  ‘Not my problem.’

  Kids were filtering out of the café to see what was going on. Brooke was among them. When she saw Ed, she broke out into a broad eager smile and trotted over to him. Halfway there, though, she caught sight of his wounds and stopped dead, one hand up to her mouth, her eyes wide.

  ‘Oh, Ed,’ she said into her fingers. ‘What have they done to you?’

  Ed felt suddenly deflated. Everything that had happened in the last few days came tumbling down on top of him. What had they done to him? Tears came into his eyes. Someone pushed past. He ignored it. The angry shouting of the boys in the atrium sounded a million miles away. Through a film of tears he saw Brooke shaking her head, backing away, horrified. Before he could say anything, Jordan appeared at the head of the stairs.

  ‘Be quiet!’ he shouted, and miraculously everyone fell silent. All eyes turned as he came down, his long military coat rustling on the stone steps.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asked, and David stepped out of the crowd.

  ‘I’m David King,’ he said. ‘We brought Ed Carter back for you.’

  ‘He doesn’t belong to me.’

  ‘He lives here, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you’re in charge, aren’t you?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Then he belongs to you.’ David was holding his hand out. ‘You must be Jordan Hordern,’ he said.

  Jordan looked at David’s hand through his thick glasses, but didn’t make any attempt to shake it.