The Fury (22 page)

‘There’s a gap,’ said Cal. He pointed at a battered stretch of fence in the front right-hand corner of the park, almost hidden behind the bulk of the log flume. There were piles and piles of scaffolding back here, rusted poles propped up against the wilting barricade. It reminded him of a bamboo forest, like in all the old martial arts movies, and he could even see a scraggly bird’s nest sitting precariously on the top of one.

‘Where?’ Brick asked. The two of them had been scouting the perimeter for the past few hours to make sure the park was secure. It had been Cal’s idea, and when he’d suggested it to Brick the boy had seemed to take it as a personal insult, as though Cal had said,
Hey, man, you’re ugly, shall we see what we can do about it?
Daisy and the new girl, Rilke, were keeping an eye on Schiller.

‘There,’ Cal said, stamping down a clutch of vicious-looking brambles in order to take a step closer to the fence. One corner had come loose from the ground leaving a flap of steel. Behind it was the towering bulk of the laurel hedge which shielded the park from the street. Brick snorted.

‘That’s not a gap, who’s going to get through there? A midget?’

‘It’s still a problem,’ said Cal. ‘This place needs to be as tight as we can make it. You never know what’s gonna happen.’

‘Fine, put it on the list,’ Brick said, waving him away like a bad smell. Cal lifted his notebook – a restaurant order pad – and added ‘log flume, loose panel’ to the two other breaches they’d found.

‘I don’t know what your problem is, mate,’ Cal said, running to catch up with the bigger boy. ‘Haven’t you ever seen zombie films? Once one gets in, they all get in, and if you’re overrun then you’re finished, dead meat.’

‘These aren’t zombies,’ Brick replied. ‘They’re not dead for one thing.’

‘I know they’re not real zombies,’ Cal said as they walked past a couple of carnival stalls, both of which had rotted in the sea air. ‘Duh. But you know what I mean. They swarm. If one comes after you, they all do.’

Brick grunted, shrugging his shoulders.

‘Anyway, at least we’re doing something, right?’ Cal went on as they walked up to the small, squat ticket office. ‘Better this than sitting around in the dark twiddling our thumbs.’

‘Specially with that girl in there,’ Brick added, whispering even though there was no way she could have heard them. ‘She scares me more than the ferals out there.’

Cal laughed, the sound floating on the warm air, seeming to fill the whole park for a second, bringing it to life the way laughter had once kept its heart beating.

‘You’re not kidding,’ he said, keeping his own voice low and casting a secretive look back at the pavilion. ‘I’m not going to sleep in the same room as her, she might kill me in the middle of the night.’

Then they were both sniggering into their hands. It felt good. It seemed like years since he’d laughed.
It wasn’t years, though, it was yesterday, remember? Yesterday when things were still almost normal
. But yesterday was gone. There was just before and after, and before was a million years ago.

‘So how well do you know this place?’ Cal asked, walking to the window of the ticket office and peering through the filthy glass. There was light inside, spilling through the massive hole in the roof and revealing a cash register with its tray open and empty, a couple of waterlogged magazines and a lot of dust.

‘Like the back of my hand,’ Brick replied. Cal could see him reflected in the window, his hair like fire. He was picking his nose. ‘Spent more time here than I have at home this year. I’ve pretty much been in every building. There’s nothing left but junk.’

Cal walked down the side of the office, the main gates towering over him. A chain the size of a fire hose was looped around the ornate ironwork and they’d been boarded up to hide the park from the street. There was a brick tower on each side, maybe ten metres tall. A turquoise ladder ran up the left-hand one to the massive sign that straddled the entrance. There were half a dozen more nests lodged in the back-to-front letters.

‘That’s a good lookout post,’ Cal said. ‘You can probably see half a mile inland from up there.’

‘Yeah, if you want to sit around all day in bird crap,’ Brick said. ‘What do we need a lookout for, anyway? Nobody ever comes out here, I told you.’

Cal didn’t reply, just jotted it down in his notepad. Brick had a way of talking that instantly got your hackles up, but surely it was because of the situation they were in. There was a chance the guy might have always been an asshole, but Cal was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. It was important that they got on – God only knew how long they’d be living here together.

‘Gift shop,’ said Brick, nodding towards the building on the other side of the gate. ‘Lost property too. It’s empty, pretty much.’

Cal walked to it. The windows were boarded over, but one sheet of plywood had been pulled off to reveal a single square, glassless eye. He checked the gap between the building and the fence to make sure it was secure.

‘So, you used to work out here or something?’ he asked as he joined Brick again.

‘Me? Hell no, this place was in ruins when I was, like, seven or something. How old you think I am?’

‘I just thought, with you being so tall and everything . . .’ Cal said, shrugging. ‘Twenty-one maybe?’

Brick snorted out a laugh. ‘I’m eighteen,’ he said. ‘Same as you, I wouldn’t be surprised. Just had to grow up a bit faster, that’s all.’

Cal studied him properly for the first time, seeing the freckles, the loose covering of fine ginger stubble. And his eyes – they were squinty and unwelcoming but they were still those of a kid.

‘You want to kiss me or something?’ Brick said, taking a step back and holding out his hands. ‘You’re giving me a weird look.’

‘Gross,’ said Cal, his cheeks heating. ‘You wish. Plus, I’m seventeen.’

There was an awkward moment, then they both started laughing again.

‘I’m glad we got
that
out the way,’ Brick said. They walked along the side of the gift shop, entering a pool of jagged shadow thrown by the huge roller coaster on the south-east side of the park. ‘There’s another way in just here. It’s the one I usually use. There’s a gap in the fence that’s hidden by the hedge, easy to sneak in and out of. It’s—’

Cal froze, grabbing hold of Brick’s arm. The bigger boy carried on speaking for a few more seconds before the words dried up in his throat. Then they both stared in silence at the path that led down between the toilets and the Boo Boo Station, peering into the gloom at the blond-haired, bloodstained boy who stood there.

He was young, he looked even younger than Daisy. He was wearing a pair of Adidas tracksuit trousers and a Batman T-shirt, both of which were coated with plum-coloured grime. His feet were bare and filthy. His near-white hair had been stained pink in places, his face too – the dried blood making his skin look like parchment. He had no expression whatsoever. He looked like a shop-window dummy, his eyes empty pockets.

‘It’s one of
them
,’ Brick hissed, taking a step back. Cal still had him by the arm, refusing to let go when Brick tried to pull away. ‘Cal, come on!’

‘Wait,’ Cal said. ‘I think he’s okay. Don’t you feel it?’

There was something in Cal’s head, that same deafening silence as before. It reminded him of the ocean on a calm day, when the sea was as flat as glass but you could still sense the vast, churning weight of water beneath the surface. Brick relaxed and Cal let him go.

‘Hey,’ Cal said, talking to the boy. He took a step towards him, his hands held up to show he didn’t mean any harm. ‘You okay? You hurt?’

How had he got here? The boy didn’t look like he could punch his way out of a wet paper bag, let alone travel to the armpit of Norfolk. Something definitely wasn’t right with this picture.

‘We’re not going to hurt you,’ Cal said, edging closer. He got down on one knee beside him. ‘Just let us know your name, or anything. Just say something so we know you’re not one of them. Yeah?’

‘You won’t get the little git to talk.’ The voice came from the hedge, followed by the snapping of branches and the hammer of footsteps. Cal felt his skin grow cold as a double-barrelled shotgun emerged through the broken fence. The guy who was holding it was in his late teens, maybe early twenties, his thin face concealed by a scraggly beard. He was wearing a green farmer’s jacket over a white shirt. He lifted the gun to his shoulder, aiming it right at Cal. ‘Don’t move, or I’ll blow your head off.’

Cal lifted his hands, backing away. At his side, Brick looked ready to bolt, his body tensing up, then he obviously thought better of it. The man approached, swinging the gun from side to side. He drew level with the young boy, giving him a look that sent him scuttling away.

‘Get in here,’ the gunman shouted. There was more rustling, then a girl appeared, her hair almost as red as the rings around her eyes. She stepped out and another boy squeezed through the fence. He looked the same age as Cal, tall but slightly overweight. They both wore the same expression:
Help us
.

‘You better tell me what I’m doing here,’ the man said, jabbing the gun like it was a spear. ‘Why everybody in the goddamned world is trying to kill me. Why you’re inside my head screwing with my thoughts.’

Cal held up his hands and took a step back, slipping on the rubble-strewn ground.

‘I said,
DON’T MOVE!
’ the man barked. His finger was on the trigger, and it was tense. Even from here Cal could see where the joint had blanched. If the guy so much as sneezed then their brains would be splattered all over the Boo Boo Station.

‘There’s no need for that, mate,’ said Cal, more tremor than voice. ‘We’re not going to do anything.’

‘Got that right,’ said the man, still walking towards them. The barrel of the shotgun was like two dark, unblinking eyes. ‘How many of you are here?’

Brick and Cal glanced at each other.

‘How many?’ the man demanded.

‘Five,’ blurted Cal. ‘One of us is injured.’

‘Where?’

‘Back there,’ said Cal, tilting his head over his shoulder. ‘In the pavilion. We’re just kids.’

‘Fatty, go check they’re not armed.’ The big kid didn’t budge. ‘Do it!’ the man yelled, making the boy jump so hard his flesh wobbled beneath his shirt. He trotted over, apologising beneath his breath as he patted down Cal then Brick. His eyes didn’t rise above their kneecaps. He scampered out of the way as soon as he’d finished.

‘Nothing,’ he whispered.

‘Right, turn and start walking,’ said the gunman. ‘Take me to where the others are, hands on your heads.’

‘What do you want?’ asked Cal, obeying. He didn’t really want his back to the guy but he didn’t see how he had a choice.

‘I want answers,’ said the man. ‘Shift, or I swear you’ll be dead before you hit the floor.’

Cal started back the way they’d come, his hands clamped in his hair. Brick walked by his side, his face pale and downturned.

This is going to get nasty
. The thought hit Cal hard. It wasn’t just a fear, it was a premonition.
Someone is going to get hurt
.

And those words were still ringing in his mind when he stepped out of the shadows and the gun went off.

‘Something’s wrong.’

Rilke looked up from her brother when Daisy spoke. The younger girl was sitting on a chair beside the sofa, huddled into herself and shivering. They’d been here for hours now, throwing more blankets on cold, unresponsive Schiller and sorting out the food into piles. Daisy had tried to start a few conversations but Rilke had been too tired to throw back more than a couple of words. This time, though, there was an urgency in her voice.

‘What?’ Rilke asked. There were plenty of things wrong, Schiller for one, his skin like marble, radiating cold. And the world. Right now the whole world was wrong.

‘It’s Cal,’ said Daisy, getting to her feet and standing there trembling. In the flickering candlelight there was something not quite real about her, something fairy-like in her saucer-shaped eyes and her ghosted skin. ‘He’s going to die.’

‘What?’ Rilke said again, frowning. ‘Cal? Why?’

‘I don’t know
why
. I . . . I just know.’

Rilke used the sofa to pull herself up off her knees, brushing the dust from her skirt. Her pulse was fast, and in its rhythm she understood that Daisy wasn’t being hysterical, she wasn’t making it up. Cal was in danger.

‘Is it Brick?’ she asked. There was something about the tall boy Rilke didn’t trust, something in his face, and in the way he’d avoided answering her when she’d asked about his girlfriend. He’d looked guilty. Daisy shook her head, her eyes on the floor and yet also somewhere else, somewhere far away.

‘It’s not Brick, he’s in danger too. We all are.’

‘Come on,’ said Rilke, holding out her hand. Daisy took it, her skin fever-hot compared to Schiller’s. They began to walk towards the door but Daisy stopped, shaking herself free and running to the far side of the restaurant. She slid a carrier bag out from beneath a table, rummaging inside it and pulling out something big. She ran back across the room and held it out to Rilke.

It was a gun.

‘Where did you get this?’ Rilke asked as she took the weapon. It was heavier than it looked. She’d used guns before, shotguns mainly. Schiller loved to shoot the pigeons and the rats for target practice and she’d often gone out with him, mainly because there wasn’t much else to do.

‘It’s Cal’s,’ Daisy said, her tone more urgent now. She kept glancing at the door. ‘Brick hid it, but I found it when we were going through the bags. Come on,
please
.’

They linked hands again, Daisy practically dragging her out of the restaurant, down the stairs and out through the chained-up fire exit.

‘Wait,’ said Rilke. ‘Daisy, hang on.’

Daisy’s only response was to increase her speed, racing past the pavilion’s main doors towards the front of the park. Rilke trotted to keep up, and she was about to call out again when she saw them at the other end of the overgrown path.

Cal and Brick emerged first, their hands on their heads like prisoners of war. Then came the long, steel barrel of a shotgun, followed by a man, a teenager maybe, in a green jacket.

‘Do it,’ Daisy said, skidding to a halt.
Do what?
Rilke thought,
shoot him?
And, incredibly, Daisy screamed: ‘Yes! Shoot him now!’

There was no time to question it. Rilke lifted the pistol, using both thumbs to pull back the stubborn hammer. She aimed past the notch on the barrel until she found the man’s face. He had a dark beard, his eyes squinting against the morning sun. She pressed both her forefingers against the trigger, a storm of thoughts all shrieking at once inside her head –
You can’t do this, you can’t shoot a man!
Then, as if they had been vacuumed up, they vanished, leaving only one, leaving only Daisy:

Do it
.

She squeezed. The gun resisted, then the trigger clicked. The shot was deafening, almost jolting the pistol out of her hands. She managed to cling on to it, peering through the smoke to see that Brick and Cal were on the ground.

Oh God, I hit one of them
, she thought. Then she saw them both squirming in the dirt, trying to crawl away. The guy with the shotgun was still standing, but there was a crimson tear down the left side of his face, stretching from his cheek to his ear. She’d grazed him. His expression of shock was so extreme it was almost comical. It seemed to take him an age to see Rilke, and as he started to swing his shotgun round she took a step forward, aiming her weapon at his head.

‘The next one won’t miss,’ she said, staring him dead on. ‘I swear to God.’

The shotgun stayed down, pointed at Cal’s back. Both boys looked up at her, their faces distorted by fear. The gunman’s shock was fast becoming anger; even from where she was standing Rilke could feel it burning off him. But there was something else, too, the same weird, clanging silence she’d felt just before meeting Daisy and the others. This guy was one of them.

He is, but he’s a bad man. Please Rilke, do it, I don’t want Cal to die
.

Had Daisy said that or was it just in her head? Either way the little girl’s voice blasted everything else away.

‘Drop it,’ she shouted, her finger tensing. Was she supposed to cock the gun again? ‘Do it right now.
Right now
.’

Blood was trickling from the man’s wound, but he still wasn’t letting go of his weapon. She thumbed back the hammer, the click barely audible over the feedback-like whine in her ears.

Please Rilke
, Daisy’s voice again, right in the flesh of her brain.
I know you don’t believe me but—

‘He’s going to kill him,’ Daisy said out loud, the switch making Rilke reel. The little girl was sobbing now, her words fractured. ‘He’s going to die.’

The gunman tensed, his face screwed into a wicked grimace. He raised the gun slightly, so that the barrel was pointing right at Cal’s head. Cal was on his back now, his arms up in front of him, frozen like one of the sculptures in the White Witch’s palace. The bearded guy never took his eyes from Rilke.

‘Yeah?’ he sneered. ‘What if I—’

Rilke pulled the trigger, bracing herself this time. The gun barked but she let her arms absorb the recoil, watching as the man staggered back, a perfectly round hole punched into his forehead. Even though he was dead – he
had
to be dead – he still stared at her, something keeping his body rigid, upright, something stopping him from crashing to the—

White heat, burning bright as phosphorous.

The man exploded, like a nuclear bomb detonating in the middle of the park. A shock wave tore outwards, crumpling the food booths on either side of the path. Rilke didn’t even have time to scream as she saw it hurricane towards her, ripping her from the ground and sending her spinning backwards into the wall of the pavilion.

It could have been a fraction of a second or a million years later that she remembered how to open her eyes. Debris still flew from the impact of the shock, moving in slow motion as if time had been knocked off its axis. Metal poles were falling ridiculously slowly from the big wheel, thudding into the ground like giant javelins. Brick and Cal were in mid-air, rolling like rag dolls as they were hurled away from the source of the detonation.

The man, the gunman, was suspended over the path, his arms out to his sides like he was being crucified. His whole body shimmered, red hot. Suddenly his head snapped back, his spine arching, and his body seemed to split, like two ropes on either side had just been pulled taut. Inside him was an inferno, almost too bright to look at, but Rilke didn’t turn away, she didn’t blink. She
couldn’t
.

Because something was coming out of the man. It could have been
another
man except this one was too big, and this one was made of fire – ferocious blue-white flames. Its distended jaw hung open in a silent scream, and the fire stretched outwards from its back, unfurling like twin sails. Its eyes blazed, and in those broken seconds the thing looked at Rilke, burning right into the fabric of her soul. Then another shock wave ripped outwards, atomising the man’s body and the thing which clawed its way out of it, blowing the hotdog stand to ash before slamming into her.

She dropped into darkness.