Текст книги "The Fear"

Автор книги: Charlie Higson

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

48

The strangers had got into the building. Something had alerted them, and, made braver by the darkness, they’d given up on the cat and wandered across the road. They’d climbed in through the downstairs windows, and Jester and Alfie could hear them on the stairs, approaching the door to the flat.

Alfie was panicking, turning to Jester for reassurance. Jester didn’t have much more of an idea than Alfie about what to do, though. The two of them had waited at the window all afternoon, hoping the strangers would give up and go away. Now it was too late.

The door to the flat was at the bottom of a short flight of stairs. The boys heard the first crash as the strangers reached it. It felt like the whole flat shook, and after the hours of silence it sounded horribly loud. Jester lit a candle and cautiously crept down to inspect the door, Alfie following, tucked in behind him for protection. They’d locked and bolted the door when they came in. Like most London flats there was heavy security. The door itself, however, didn’t look very strong. The big house had been divided up into several poky flats, and not a great deal of money had been spent on the building work.

As the strangers pounded on the door, it bulged and cracked in its frame.

‘Jesus, Jester, what do we do?’ Alfie said, still whispering, even though it made no difference now.

‘We can hold them off for a while,’ said Jester, putting the candle down on the stairs.

‘Yeah? And then what?’

‘Then we …’ Jester shrugged. ‘We fight them off?’

‘All of them?’

‘Have you got a better plan?’

‘You’re the one supposed to be in charge,’ Alfie whined, staring fixedly at the woodwork. ‘Do something. Think of something. You’re supposed to be clever.’

There was an almighty thump followed by an animal growl and a split appeared down the edge of the frame where it was starting to come away from the wall.

‘We should have looked for another way out,’ said Alfie, staring at the frame. ‘While there was still time.’

‘I’m not used to this,’ Jester protested.

‘Shadowman would have known what to do,’ Alfie said bitterly. ‘We should never of left him.’

‘Stay here,’ said Jester, snapping into action at last and bounding up the stairs. ‘Push as hard as you can against the door – don’t let them force it in.’

‘All right,’ said Alfie, thankful to be told what to do at last. He leant his weight against the door, felt the vibrations through the wood as the strangers on the other side hammered it. He swallowed hard, feeling like he was going to be sick. It made it all too horribly real, feeling the strangers throw their bodies against the door – it was like he was actually touching them. Only a few millimetres of pine separated them.

He prayed that Jester would hurry up.

How many of them were out there? They’d counted nine to begin with, but as night had fallen they’d been joined by more and more of their kind as they emerged from their dens to go hunting under the cover of darkness.

He slowly leant forward and put his ear to the door. Now he could hear their grunts and sniffs and hissing breath. Their frenzied scrabbling movements as they fought each other to get to the door.

‘Hurry up, Jester!’

He jerked back as there came an even heavier thump. His arms were shaking, his hands slippery with sweat.

‘Jester …’

‘I’m here!’

There was a clatter as Jester came down the stairs carrying two kitchen chairs. Together they quickly wedged them between the door and the stairs, jamming the legs against the steps.

‘That’ll help,’ said Jester.

‘We need more,’ said Alfie. ‘We need to block the stairs completely.’

‘OK. OK …’

‘But, Jester, even that won’t hold forever. You saw what they were like with that cat. They won’t give up. They’ll get in eventually, or we’ll starve to death, or, I don’t know what, but we have to have a better plan …’

Jester thought for a moment, running his fingers through his shock of stiff, wiry hair. ‘I’ll look for some more stuff to block the stairs,’ he said, trying to sound calm.

Alfie nodded. ‘OK.’

‘And I’ll look for another way out. A window, or something. We’re not that high up.’

‘Yeah. Good. But you should have looked before. You let us get trapped here.’

‘I didn’t think – neither did you.’

‘Shadowman wouldn’t have got us trapped like this,’ Alfie repeated.

‘Maybe not. But I’ll get us out, Alfie. All right?’ Jester smiled at the younger boy, a light of defiance in his eyes. Alfie smiled back. All he needed was for someone to tell him that everything was going to be all right. Jester was standing up at last, acting tough, and it gave Alfie strength and hope.

‘They’re all distracted here,’ said Jester. ‘They’ll be too stupid to think of whether there might be any other ways in or out. You stay put, bang on the door, make a lot of noise. Draw them all here. Let them think we’re not going anywhere.’

‘OK, yeah. I get it.’

‘Good man, Alfie. I’ll be right back.’

Alfie watched Jester run to the top of the stairs again, and then he returned to his station. The chairs were holding. With no room to give, the door wasn’t jumping so much in its frame now. Alfie’s smile grew wider. It felt good to have a plan. They could get one over on the strangers. Kids could always beat them, because they were smarter. The grown-ups’ weakness was their stupidity.

He banged his fists against the woodwork and was answered from the other side by a frenzied scurrying, scraping, moaning assault on the door.

‘Yeah?’ Alfie yelled, his voice high-pitched and hysterical. ‘You hear that? That’s me! Alfie Walker. Yeah? And I’m cleverer than you dumb bitches! You stupid ugly farts. Yeah, knock on the door all you like – you ain’t coming in. And, if you do, I’ll split you with my knife. I’ll rip your rotten guts out. I’ll kick your brains up the walls!’

He started to laugh as he hurled more and more insults at the strangers and came up with gorier and gorier ways to splatter them. His voice eventually started to grow hoarse and he realized that Jester had been gone an awfully long time. He turned and looked up the stairs. The candle was nearly burnt down.

Where was he?

‘Jester!’ he called. ‘Jester, how are you getting on?’

There was no reply. Before Alfie could shout again he was distracted by a change in the noise at the door. There was a harder, sharper bang, and a crunching noise. He picked up the flickering candle and moved it closer. Then it came again – THWACK – and a big crack appeared down the middle of the door. They were hitting it with something. Something sharp. Strangers didn’t normally use tools of any kind, or weapons, but some of them, the cleverer ones, the ones who weren’t as far gone, would sometimes pick things up. Then it was like some deep memory would kick in and they’d find themselves back in their old lives, doing DIY on a weekend, working in the garden, chopping wood …

‘Jester?’ Alfie called. ‘Hurry up. They’re using a tool of some sort. They’re hacking through the door, mate!’

Another crash and the point of a metal object punched through. Alfie swore and ran up the steps calling Jester’s name.

‘Where the hell are you?’ He moved from room to room, but there was no sign of the other boy.

And then he went into the kitchen.

The window was open.

Alfie went very cold.

Surely Jester wouldn’t have just abandoned him?

But that was quickly followed by another thought.

Why not?

He’d abandoned Shadowman, who was supposedly his best friend. A cold achy feeling filled Alfie’s guts. He went over to the window and looked out. The sky was clouded over, but there was just enough light from the moon to see a low flat roof below. Beyond that was a small backyard and an alleyway.

Empty.

‘Jester …?’

Alfie was crying. He wiped his nose.

‘Bastard …’

Another crash from downstairs, followed by the sound of splintering wood, and then the noise of the strangers themselves.

They were through.

Alfie dropped his knife down on to the lower roof and squeezed out of the window. He found it hard to calculate the drop in the darkness. He hung there nervously for a moment, summoning the courage to let go, and then something struck his hand and he released his grip. He landed badly, jarring his ankles and knees. But there was no time to feel sorry for himself. He staggered to the edge and realized he was going to have to jump again. Shaking his numb hand, he looked up at the window. It was blocked by strangers fighting to get out.

He took a deep breath and launched himself off the flat roof. He landed better this time, but it still sent sharp jolts of pain up his legs and into his spine. He tried to walk and shrieked in agony. His legs were on fire.

There was a thump from above and he looked up to see that a father had dropped from the window. Alfie realized to his horror that he had forgotten to pick up his knife. There was no question of climbing back up to get it.

The father shuffled to the edge of the flat roof and jumped down. There was a horrible snapping noise and he collapsed, his broken leg bones sticking through his trousers.

That made Alfie feel a little better. He mustn’t act like a wimp. He wasn’t so badly hurt. He limped to the back gate, barged it open and looked both ways along the alley that ran behind the houses. No sign of bloody Jester.

He spat.

Another stranger dropped out of the window.

Alfie started hobbling down the alley, his knees killing him, swearing under his breath with every step. He wished he had his knife. He wasn’t intending to be doing any fighting if he could help it – all he wanted to do right now was get away and find another hiding-place – but holding on to the knife had given him courage.

He left the alley where it joined the main road. There was nobody around. He was alone, out here on the streets with no idea where he was. There were sounds behind him. The hunters were on his tail. They could probably smell him. He tried to speed up, but it hurt too much. Tears were streaming down his face. Tears of anger and fear and betrayal and self-pity. First Kate and Tom had left him, and now Jester. He didn’t deserve this.

Well, he’d show them. He’d show them he could survive. He’d got this far, hadn’t he? After the sickness struck he was alone on the streets for nearly two weeks before linking up with some other kids, who he’d ended up going to the palace with.

He’d done it before – he could do it again.

Don’t wimp out …

He put his hand up to dry his eyes and felt a splash of something warm across his face. A wave of nausea hit him and a terrible pain ripped through his hand.

Now what?

He whimpered. His fingers had been severed at the joints. It must have been when he was hanging from the window frame. Something had hit him. Chopped his fingers clean off.

He leant against a wall, clutching his ruined hand, and threw up.

This was bad. Really bad. He’d lost his fingers. He was bleeding. This was so bad …

He had to keep moving, though.

He stumbled along in the road, sobbing wildly. He had to find a hiding-place. He had to choose a house. Get inside. Off the street. Tend to his wound. He swerved into a smaller side-road. Ran past darkened houses. Trying not to think about his hand. His fingers.

Oh God.

He ran up to a front door, booted it and it swung open easily.

See. He could do it.

He walked forward in the dark. He wished he had a torch, but Jester had taken the only one. They hadn’t expected to be out after dark. They should have been back at the palace hours ago. He wondered what they’d all be doing right now. Back home. Settling down to eat? Or clearing up? He had no idea what time it was. Would they be thinking about him?

Just wait till he got back and told them what Jester had done …

He stopped, and stood there, panting, blood dripping on the floor, his lungs and heart working too fast. Pain taking over.

He hated being alone.

Then he felt a hand on his shoulder. He spun round.

‘Jester?’

He saw a figure silhouetted against the door. Too large to be a kid. Then another hand touched him. And another. Something brushed his thighs. He smelt sour breath and the sickly sweet overripe smell of strangers. He lashed out wildly with his good hand, but it was no use. He had no weapon. He was surrounded. He’d broken into a strangers’ den.

He felt breath on his face, hot and rancid. He retched and swayed, his brain melting. There was a rush of movement, teeth on his neck, fingernails raking his face. He felt a terrible pressure in his head. The teeth at his throat were suffocating him.

Oh God …

Mercifully he passed out before the teeth tore through his skin, and his pure, clean, undiseased blood exploded from the constricted arteries.

49

Jester hadn’t planned to climb out of the window. He really hadn’t. He hadn’t planned to leave Alfie behind. But, when he’d pulled the window up and looked down, a plan had leapt into his mind as if it had been waiting there for him all along. It presented itself, clear and cold and perfect. Alfie was holding the strangers at the door, distracting them, and it would give him time to get well away.

He’d dropped the bits and pieces he’d been collecting to barricade the door and simply climbed out. Before he really knew what he was doing he was sprinting along the alleyway as fast as he could.

Surely it was right that one of them should survive rather than both getting killed. He was a kid and hadn’t the old song always said that children were the future? They had to live. They had to beat the grown-ups. They had to win, whatever it took. Make it through these dark times into the light of a better future.

Better one living than two dead.

It was down to each individual to look after himself.

And anyway. Maybe Alfie would be all right. He was a tough kid. Not stupid. Maybe he’d get away just like Jester had. It was up to him. Jester wasn’t responsible for anyone other than himself. If it was anyone’s fault, it was David’s. He hadn’t given Jester enough muscle. Tom and Kate? Well, they’d scarpered, hadn’t they? Blame them.

Blame anyone other than me.

And don’t go whining to God about it. It was pretty clear that there was no God up there, no kindly old gent looking down, keeping score in a notebook. You did good, you did bad, it didn’t make any difference, did it? This one’s going to heaven, this one’s going to hell, this one’s going to Disneyland.

No. God wouldn’t have let any of this shit happen. If you were going to believe in anything, then believe in the devil. He was much more real than God. Up there causing mischief. Laughing at the chaos he’d created.

Jester stopped running. His lungs were stinging and his legs felt rubbery. There were the beginnings of a stitch in his side.

Where was he?

No bloody idea.

Not true, Jester. You do know where you are.

In hell.

As usual.

He’d got away from the strangers, though, and that was all that mattered. With luck, any others in the area would have been attracted by all the noise and disturbance back there and he’d have the streets to himself for a while.

But were there any other kids around?

There had to be. It didn’t make any sense otherwise. Why would strangers stay in the area if there was no food? Kids and strangers were locked in a deadly relationship. Children were the only source of fresh food, but they were also the grown-ups’ greatest predators. That’s why, in the end, the strangers would lose. Human beings wouldn’t have survived for long if sheep had fought back, would they? Or cows …

Jester smiled at this thought while he stood getting his breath back.

There had to be some kids around somewhere.

But where?

He heard movement from the buildings on one side of the road. People moving about. Kids or grown-ups? You had to be careful. He sighed and moved off, plodding along the road until he was at a safe distance. After a couple of hundred metres he looked back. It was strangers. A small group of them had come out of the building and were coming after him.

He started up again, his trainers slapping down on the hard surface of the road, his patchwork coat flying out behind him, his satchel banging against his back.

He kept glancing behind him. The strangers were struggling to keep up, but he needed to put a lot of distance between him and them before he could risk holing up somewhere for the night. He careered round a bend and yelped as he almost ran straight into a stranger waddling along the other way. They knocked each other over, and Jester swore as his backside hit the deck.

He’d blundered right into the middle of a gang of about ten diseased grown-ups. He scurried backwards away from them. He’d dropped Shadowman’s club in the collision and would need to get to it quickly. He scrambled messily to his feet, shoved a mother out of the way and managed to get hold of the club just as a big father made a grab for him. He lashed out and whacked the father, who went down. At the same moment another mother knocked into him and the club was pulled out of his grasp. He punched the mother, then a father, and thrashed his way out of the knot of bodies.

And then he was running again.

He was on a wide, open road with big shops on either side and a fenced-off island down the middle. And as he ran he noticed something else. At first he thought it must be a mirage, created by his panicking brain, offering up a false hope of safety. But he looked again.

Candlelight. Flickering in a sort of courtyard. He turned and aimed his steps towards it, vaulting over the railings in the centre of the road.

He careered into the courtyard. Candlelight could mean only one thing. Kids. There wasn’t any other explanation, was there? Unless it was a fire. But even that would help. He could use fire against the strangers.

The light was coming from inside a Morrisons supermarket. The windows were secured and barricaded, and behind the barricades was the candlelight. Civilization. He banged on the windows and shouted to be let in.

At first there was no response then a voice called down to him from the roof.

‘Get away from here. We don’t let no one in.’

‘You have to!’ Jester pleaded. ‘I’m being chased by strangers. There’s hundreds of them out here, grown-ups.’

‘That’s why we ain’t opening the doors, mate. Piss off. We don’t want you here.’

‘You can’t lock me out!’

‘Can’t we?’

‘Let me in, please …’

‘We’ll kill you if we have to.’

‘You can’t …’

Then Jester felt a sting in the side of his head and rubbed his scalp. Something had hit him – already a lump was coming up. Then another sting as something hit his shoulder. They were throwing stuff at him from the roof. Stones and bits of wood. He backed away.

‘Bastards!’ he screamed, and they swore at him.

Before they could throw anything else he retreated back out into the street, rubbing his head. More strangers had appeared. He glanced quickly in both directions, looking for any signs of light. If there was one gang of kids living around here, there might be more. He might find someone with a warmer welcome.

There! Could it be? Yes? More lights, shining out from another supermarket further along the road. He recognized the sign – Waitrose. It was where his parents had shopped before the disaster.

He ran towards it, bowling three strangers over along the way, desperate now. If he got the same response here, he was dead. The road was filling with strangers who were pouring in from all directions. And they were thickest around Waitrose.

He forced himself to move faster, his feet hammering on the tarmac, and he slammed against the front windows of the shop, roaring for help at the top of his voice, feeling like his lungs were going to burst. His shout for help turned into a scream as a mother lunged at him, teeth bared in a snarl. He battered her away and banged again on the windows.

Then he was aware of a fresh light and he looked up. Someone was shining a torch down at him.

‘Let me in!’

He heard voices, but couldn’t tell what they were saying. Filled with a mad fury he slammed an approaching father against the glass, and then kicked another in the guts. Jabbing left and right with his elbows he backed away from the windows, all the while yelling for help. He broke free of the huddle around him and was on the move again, darting madly to avoid a larger group of grown-ups who were trying to close in on him. The torch beam zigzagged across the road, like a spotlight in a prison-escape movie.

What were they doing up there? Were they going to help him or not?

‘Please! Help me!’ he wailed, his voice thin and weedy like a baby’s. He tore himself out of the grip of a very determined father and ran back towards the shop. He couldn’t get there, though. The strangers were going berserk. Half were attacking him, half seemed to be trying to break into the shop. The father was on him again and Jester managed to hurl him at a group of grown-ups who slammed into the glass. Shouting, screaming, punching and kicking, Jester fought his way back into the open and started running. He was forced to keep switching direction or risk being penned in by the milling grown-ups, and was soon going round in circles. Exhaustion was taking hold. His body was running on its last reserves. He had used all his energy getting to the shop and shouting for help. He couldn’t believe that the kids inside were just going to watch him die out here.

And then the faces of the strangers around him were suddenly lit red and orange, like spectators at a firework display. A flaming torch was sailing through the night sky, bright against the clouds. It landed with an explosion of sparks, scattering the strangers. Jester heard kids shouting a war cry.

He clamped his hand to his mouth to stop himself from crying.

It looked like he was going to be rescued.

Maybe there was a God after all.