The Dead (36 page)

They’d been going for an hour. Along a very wide, very straight and very dreary road. They’d passed an endless parade of small shops and businesses. It had taken them twice as long as it should have. Jack was walking more and more slowly. He was bandaged and smothered in antiseptic, but blood was already soaking through the dressings in dark patches, and now, as the adrenalin wore off, every step hurt him. He’d taken some painkillers. They’d done little more than take the edge off and his mood was as black as the cloud of smoke that hung over south London. He knew that the chances of getting all the shot out cleanly were pretty slim. If it stayed inside him, the wounds wouldn’t heal properly. It was hard enough trying to survive when you were fit and healthy, but like this …

He didn’t want to think about it, but couldn’t help himself. No matter where he steered it, his mind kept slipping back there. The bright flash, the stinging pain, the punch to his belly. The realization that everything had changed.

Ed and Bam tried hard to keep his spirits up, but it irritated him as much as it helped. Bam irritated him most. Jack knew he shouldn’t blame him for what had happened. It was an accident. But, even so … If it just hadn’t happened. If he could turn back time. If he could have called out to Bam. If Bam could have called out to him. If Bam had aimed another foot to the right. If, if, if …

He played the scene over and over in his head with different outcomes, but it didn’t make any difference. The reality was that he was full of lead shot and losing a lot of blood. His hands and feet were freezing. He had pins and needles in his face. He was feeling faint and feeble and dizzy and thirsty. They had water with them and they stopped every few metres so he could sip some more, but no matter how much he drank he wasn’t able to shift his burning thirst.

They were getting into Clapham. He was nearly home, but if they were attacked again he wasn’t sure he’d be able to do much.

Then he realized something else.

‘My gun!’ he said. ‘Where’s my gun? My lovely machine gun?’

‘You must have lost it in the explosion,’ said Ed.

‘Why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you get me another?’

‘I did.’

‘What?’

‘When I went for the torch I got another pistol.’

‘Not another machine gun?’

‘Face it, Jack, you didn’t really know how to use it, did you? You were more danger to us than anyone else.’

‘I could have learnt, practised.’

‘Yeah, and how many bullets would you have had left when you’d finished? Guns are all well and good but without ammo, they’re useless. Pistols are easier to use and safer, and they don’t use up their ammo so quickly. I found a few extra clips as well. It’s all in my pack. When you’re stronger, I’ll give it you.’

‘Give it to me now. Give me the gun.’

‘It’s too heavy, Jack. How would you carry it? You try and shove it in your waistband you’ll kill yourself.’

‘Yeah, all right …’ Jack’s voice softened. ‘Thanks, Ed. You did really well back there. But that machine gun was so cool. All those weapons outside the Oval. All burned up. It’s tragic.’

‘You can have my shotgun if you want it, mate,’ said Bam.

‘I never want to see that bloody shotgun again as long as I live.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Stop saying sorry. It only makes things worse.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Oh bloody hell, Bam.’

They stopped for another sip of water and for Jack to catch his breath. Ed’s back was stiff from propping him up under his shoulder.

‘How much further now?’ he asked. Since leaving the Oval they hadn’t seen anyone else, and he was hoping their luck was going to hold out.

Jack sat down on a car’s bonnet and looked around. They were by Clapham Common tube station; ahead of them lay the wide expanse of the common itself. A pack of dogs was running across it barking, but otherwise there were no signs of life.

‘Only about five minutes,’ Jack said. ‘Maybe ten if we carry on at this speed. We’re nearly there.’

They looked back the way they’d come. The column of smoke from the Oval had gone miles up into the sky and had spread out to mix with the smoke from the other, larger, fire.

‘London’s burning, London’s burning,’ Jack sang quietly, and the others forced a laugh. It wasn’t the funniest thing anyone had ever said, but it encouraged Ed that Jack could still try to make a joke. It gave him some small glimmer of hope that perhaps things weren’t as bad as they seemed.

He was searching for something funny to say himself when he saw a movement in the distance.

Luckily Bam still had his binoculars firmly round his neck.

‘Bam, take a look through your bins.’ Ed pointed down the road. ‘I think I saw someone moving about, just past the traffic lights.’

Bam put the binoculars to his eyes and scanned the area.

‘No … Can’t see anything. Oh, wait a minute. Yes, I think it’s a man, just one, carrying something. But he’s ducked out of sight. He’s a long way away, though. I don’t think we need worry about him if we keep moving.’

‘You’re sure there was just one of them?’

‘Well, I only saw one, but that doesn’t mean anything. They usually go around in groups, don’t they? I mean, as I say, we need to get a budge on.’

They hoisted Jack on to his feet and turned back in the direction they were heading.

Jack spat out a harsh swear word, and sagged in their arms.

There were about fifteen sickos coming across the common towards them. They were mostly fathers, but there were three or four particularly raddled-looking mothers. They’d managed to get close while the boys were distracted.

Too close.

Bam and Ed quickly picked up Jack and staggered over to a side-road to try to get away.

‘We can’t outrun them,’ Jack croaked. ‘You’ll kill me. Give me my gun, Ed.’

‘We can’t fight them all,’ said Ed. ‘Not with you like this.’

He looked back. The sickos were steadily gaining on them.

‘Come on, Bam!’ They tried to speed up, but it was no use. Jack cried out in pain.

‘Stop! Stop! Just give me the gun.’

‘It’s in my pack.’

‘Then give me yours. I’m too weak to use my sword.’

‘Jack, you’re too weak to do anything.’

‘Give me the gun!’

‘All right.’

They stopped and propped Jack against a car.

Ed ripped the pistol from the holster at his waist and gave it to Jack. Bam turned, raised his shotgun. He hadn’t thought to reload it since shooting Jack at the Oval – he’d been too distracted – but he was fairly sure he still had one shell ready in the barrel. He took aim, squeezed the trigger and felt the gun kick against his aching shoulder.

The lead father fell back.

Jack was ready now. He pointed the pistol and fired. The gun sent a shockwave of pain down his arm as it jumped in his hand. The bullet completely missed its target.

Bam fumbled in his jacket pocket for more cartridges and discovered to his horror that the pocket was ripped and hanging half off. There was only one lone shell left.

Jack slid down the side of the car and sat with his back against it. This time he held the gun firmly with both hands and fired two shots in quick succession. The next sicko went down.

Bam broke his shotgun, slotted in his last shell and fired again. A third father fell.

Then he was out of shells and the sickos were on them.

Ed had backed away as the sickos advanced, so that he was behind Bam and Jack. He watched as a mother made a grab for Jack who feebly tried to bat her away with his pistol. Bam charged into the rest of them with a war cry, his shotgun reversed in his hands like a club. He whacked three sickos aside, barging into a fourth one and knocking her flat. He carried on past the group until he was well clear, then turned and came flying back, barrelling through the sickos like a mad bull.

Ed didn’t know what to do. It had all happened so quickly. The sickos had come from nowhere. For a few seconds he stood there, unable to move. The mother who had gone for Jack had been joined by a father. They had hold of him and were dragging him away. He was too weak to resist.

Bam had gone down in a tangle of bodies and was trying to stand up with three sickos on his back.

Ed closed his eyes. And then it was as if something broke inside him, a wire that been twisted tighter and tighter and tighter had finally snapped. A weird calmness settled over him. An emptiness.

He opened his eyes.

‘No.’ He spoke softly, quietly. Then louder. ‘No.’

Finally he screamed, ‘No!’ and ran at the two sickos who had Jack. He shoved the mother aside, kicked the father in the stomach and then punched him in the nose, splattering it across his diseased and pockmarked face. He kept moving and snatched up the fallen pistol before pulling Jack clear and dumping him behind a van for safety. He leant down, checked that Jack was conscious, then put the pistol back into his hands and took hold of the handle of his sword.

‘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.