Текст книги "The Fear"

Автор книги: Charlie Higson

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

50

Shadowman was in some kind of tunnel. At one end was darkness, the other opened out into what he thought might be a large enclosed space. The four strangers from the building site hadn’t killed him. They’d brought him here and dumped him in the tunnel. He wasn’t sure exactly where here was, though, because it was too dark to see anything properly and he’d blacked out before they’d arrived. Now he was sitting propped up with his back against the wall trying to get his bearings. He wasn’t alone. There were several other kids with him. All dead except for one girl, and she was barely alive. Occasionally she groaned and moved slightly, but when Shadowman had tried to speak to her she hadn’t replied.

There were noises from the depths of the tunnel and Shadowman was aware of more than one adult wandering around, coming and going in the darkness. The ones who had brought him here were keeping close. Standing watch over him. He wasn’t sure if it was to stop him from escaping or to stop the others from grabbing him. Just what they were keeping him alive for he had no idea. He was trying not to think ahead, trying not to imagine all the things that might be done to him. For now he was alive and feeling gradually more normal. His head was clearing and he didn’t feel so sick and woozy. He was able to stay awake for much longer periods, though he still felt very tired. Even without the blow to his head he supposed he’d feel tired, though. It was the middle of the night, after all. What time was it? No idea. His watch was in his pack and his pack was gone.

His four strangers lurked silently in the gloom. Waiting for something. He had made up nicknames for them. It made them somehow less threatening. The one with the earpiece he had named Bluetooth. The one in the football shirt was Man U. The half-naked father with the missing limb was the One-Armed Bandit. The fourth member of their group was a rather ordinary-looking father. If you could describe someone as ordinary when their skin was blistered and peeling off, and their hair was falling out. It was just that compared to the other three he had no obvious distinguishing features.

The thing about strangers, grown-ups, mothers and fathers – call them whatever you liked – was they all looked the same after a while. Diseased.

These four seemed quite patient. They squatted down, leaning against the far wall, now and then standing up and going over to peer out of the end of the tunnel. And whenever another stranger came close they all jumped up and went into aggressive mode. Guarding their territory, their trophies.

Otherwise they seemed happy to wait.

Shadowman was happy to wait too, because with every passing second he grew stronger. When the time came to fight and hopefully run, he was determined to be ready.

There was a hiss and snarl from the tunnel mouth and he turned to see what had made the sound – his eyes straining to make out the shapes in the dim light. There seemed to be a father standing there, a black shape against the paler grey of the outside world. He was squat with a massive head and appeared to be wearing baggy shorts. He made a noise that sounded like he was clearing his throat and the four strangers seemed to understand what he wanted. Two of them, Bluetooth and the Bandit, took hold of one of the dead kids by the ankles and dragged him outside. Man U and Mr Ordinary then took hold of the girl who was still alive and pulled her out by her feet in the same way. She moaned and whimpered but didn’t struggle. Then Bluetooth and the Bandit were back and taking hold of Shadowman. He decided not to fight, either. He needed to know where he was and what was going on before he could make any kind of escape plan.

When they dragged him out of the end of the tunnel, it was a moment before he realized where he was. It was so unexpected. In fact he had to close his eyes and open them a couple of times to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating.

It was a football stadium. Overhead was a wide expanse of open sky and all around were ranks of seats. He tried to think which stadium it might be. If he was in north London, it had to be either the Spurs ground or the Arsenal. It was big enough and modern enough to be the new Arsenal stadium and that would make sense as it was the nearest one to King’s Cross.

The father he had seen silhouetted in the tunnel mouth was standing in the centre of the overgrown pitch. The four strangers seemed to be looking after him. Now that Shadowman could make him out clearly he saw that he had an immense, swollen bald head, a pair of wire-framed glasses with no lenses and was wearing a football vest with the cross of St George on it. There were two dead bodies at his feet, half hidden in the long grass, and the girl who was still alive was trying to stand up. Bluetooth went over and knocked her down, then stood patiently by the fat-headed one as if awaiting orders.

Shadowman had never seen this level of organization among grown-ups before. The idea that they might have a leader, that they might work together, was something new to him. Most of the grown-ups had been driven out of the area around Buckingham Palace, so Shadowman hadn’t been able to observe how they behaved, but obviously those that had survived the year since the disease first struck were changing, developing, growing. Unless it was only the cleverer ones that had survived this long. If they started to properly work together they would become truly dangerous. He was appalled, scared, and yet fascinated by what he was seeing.

He noticed that there were more strangers in the stadium seating, as if watching the spectacle that was unfolding on the pitch. Like some sort of gladiatorial games.

Or a human sacrifice.

How many were there?

Shadowman realized he had withdrawn from what was going on. He was watching all this as if it was happening to someone else. He’d always been the type to stand back and observe – now he was spying on his own death.

This would make quite a scene in a film. The grotesque swollen-headed father with the glasses, his diseased minions, the zombie spectators. All it lacked was flaming torches to give it the full Hollywood pagan-ceremony treatment.

As if on cue, a gout of flame shot up from the back of one section of seating. It seemed to be coming from one of the hospitality suites where privileged guests could watch the matches while tucking into a nice lunch. The fire spread and lit up half the stadium and then Shadowman was amazed to see a father, engulfed in flames from head to foot, come crashing out into the open, and tumble down three rows of seats. The strangers on the pitch were mesmerized. They turned as one to gaze dumbly at the rising column of smoke, and the flames that leapt and sparked as they spread along the back of the stands.

The strangers who were nearest to it were thrown into a panic. They spilt out of their seats and ran in all directions. Shadowman’s gang, the more organized ones, were calmer, but he could sense fear taking hold of them.

Something was attacking their den. For the moment they forgot about Shadowman and stood there, confused and angry. It was all the opportunity he needed, but if he tried to run would his legs betray him again? Would his brain short-circuit and send him flip-flapping to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut?

He had to risk it. He wasn’t going to be offered a better chance of escape than this, and if he delayed a moment longer the strangers might remember him and get back to work.

Now or never, Shadowman.

What did Nike say? Just do it …

He took a couple of deep breaths, filled his lungs with oxygen and lurched forward. He took a few wobbly steps and his legs held up.

Now run!

He broke away from the gang and aimed for the nearest stand. He wasn’t about to go back into the players’ tunnel – it was too dark in there and he had no idea where it led – but there would be openings in the stands leading to the exits. It would mean getting in among the strangers. He just hoped that they’d be confused and groggy and panicked.

Miracle of miracles, his legs stayed firm, his brain stayed focused. He vaulted over an advertising hoarding into the seats and felt a rush of life and energy surging through his body.

So long, suckers … The Shadowman is out of here!

51

‘You can’t leave.’

‘We can and we are.’

DogNut was standing by the diplodocus in the main hall at the museum with Courtney. Morning light was streaming in through the windows. They’d packed their gear and had been about to round up Felix and Marco when Justin had appeared, bustling in from one of the side galleries. Now he was hyped up and anxious.

‘You give us one good reason why we can’t go,’ said DogNut.

‘You promised me you’d tell your stories to Chris Marker, for The Chronicles of Survival.’

‘Did I? I don’t remember promising nothing.’

Justin grunted and rubbed his scalp, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

‘Well, yeah, OK,’ he said. ‘Maybe you didn’t promise, but I asked and I thought you’d agreed.’

‘Didn’t agree to nothing.’

‘It’s important to us,’ Justin pleaded.

‘We need to get back, Justin,’ said DogNut apologetically. ‘We’ve done what we set out to do. We found you lot – now we need to go and tell them back at the Tower. They’re the ones who need to hear our stories.’

‘Yes,’ said Justin, ‘I appreciate that, but, well, we’ve shown you everything we’re doing here, and … and the least you can do is tell us how you’ve survived. It would be a huge help to us.’

‘What d’you mean?’ said DogNut. ‘I don’t see how it helps anything.’

‘It’s a very valuable resource.’

‘A very valuable resource,’ said DogNut, mocking Justin’s nasal tones.

Justin’s face flushed red, and he raised his voice angrily. ‘You can take the piss, DogNut,’ he snapped, ‘but we happen to think it’s important.’

‘Well, how long’s it going to take?’ said DogNut.

‘All you have to do is tell your stories, starting with what you can remember of when the disease first struck, and finishing with your arrival here.’

‘Yeah,’ said DogNut. ‘So I’ll ask you again, brother, how long do you think it’ll take?’

‘I don’t know, a few hours? They’ve got to write it all down.’

‘A few hours?’ DogNut’s face was a picture of amazement. ‘But we need to make an early start. That ain’t gonna work.’

‘Leave tomorrow,’ Justin pleaded. ‘What difference will one more day make? It would mean a lot to us … It would mean a lot to me. I’ll give you stuff for the journey, food and water. If you’ll just do this one thing for me.’

‘I don’t know …’

‘He’s right, Dog,’ said Courtney. ‘What difference would one more day make?’

‘I thought it was you that wanted to go!’ DogNut protested.

‘I don’t mind.’

‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Justin. ‘If you agree to stay and tell us your stories, I’ll give you an escort. I’ll get Robbie to pick some fighters and go with you, at least some of the way.’

‘On one condition,’ said DogNut.

‘What?’

‘Jackson comes along. That girl is well hard.’

‘Deal.’

DogNut sighed and put down his pack. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Agreed. One more day. We’ll talk to Chris.’

‘Thanks, DogNut,’ said Justin, and he shook DogNut’s hand.

52

The squirrel ran across the grass, its body and tail moving in a series of flowing S shapes. It stopped. Sat up on its hind legs, its whole body shaking. There was no way it could go any further in this direction. It turned and darted back the way it had come. Again its path was blocked. It raced off in another direction. It was panicking, running shorter and shorter distances as the net tightened round it. Scurrying, stopping, turning, twitching, jumping …

The gym bunnies weren’t going to let it reach a tree. They’d been chasing it for the last half-hour, and they were determined to catch it.

They were getting used to the sunlight, staying out longer each time, growing braver. They’d risked coming into the park this morning. There was nobody else around and their hunger was driving them crazy. They’d stripped bark off the trees and pulled up plants to get at the roots. And then they’d seen the squirrel. Scared it out of a tree down on to the ground.

Now it was surely trapped.

The mother moved forward. It would be her kill. She held her knife tight in one hand. All she had to do was grab the animal and slit its throat. It skittered away across the grass, chittering and squeaking. She dived, missed. Another sicko lunged. Another kicked it and it flew back towards the mother who at last managed to get a hand to it. She held it up to show the others, grinning. She was proud of them. They were learning to work together properly. They were a team.

The animal wriggled in her grasp, shrieking, scratching and biting her fingers. She put the knife to its scrawny neck and cut deep, severing its head. The bright red blood foamed out and she quickly put it to her mouth, drinking it down, feeling it hot against her tongue and lips.

A father picked up the head and popped it into his mouth, crunching it like a sweet.

The mother sat on the grass and stretched the animal’s small body out, stuck the knife into its belly to get at the guts.

It felt so good she smiled with joy. The knife was helping her think straight. The familiar feel of it in her hands was awakening old memories. She was becoming stronger, clearer-headed, more able to hunt and kill.

She stuffed the warm guts into her mouth, tossed the squirrel’s body to her pack and stood up.

Raised the knife to the sky. Felt the energy from it pulse through her body. Stared at it, clutched in her ragged fingers. Her eyes twitching in her head as they tried to focus on the blade. Transfixed by the light that lanced off it. Letting it flicker across her eyes. Showing the others in her pack that she wasn’t afraid. That she had the willpower to resist.

It was a tool, and tools were what had given mankind dominance over every other living thing on the planet. Just holding the knife had cleared her head and boosted the intelligence that made her the natural leader of the pack. And the powerful electric force that flowed through her from the cold, hard handle of the weapon brought back memories. Memories of all the things that she had lost. A glimpse into the perfect golden world she had lived in before the sickness had wormed its way inside her, wriggling and burrowing through her flesh. It had taken root in her just as the knife was doing now. She could see writhing tendrils snake out of the handle and dig into her flesh, joining with her veins and arteries. The power of the knife would banish the disease. She could see black lines on her skin. Was it a picture, perhaps? A picture of the disease?

She smiled.

See.

She was growing clever again. The knife was the key. The rest of the pack, they were too stupid to understand these things; all they could do was follow. Like animals. Hunting together.

Soon they’d go back underground to their new den by the tube tracks. They could only take the brightness for a little while. They’d rest, strengthened by this tiny meal, drink the water that rose up through the ground. And tomorrow they’d be strong enough to risk attacking any children who came past. As long as it was a small enough group. She would fall on them and she would gut them like she had gutted the rat thing.

She chuckled, blood dribbling from between her teeth.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow they would eat properly.

They’d found some children in the night, hiding in a building. The children had tried to use fire to drive them away. But the fire had turned on them, and they’d burned up. She dribbled as she remembered the smell of roasting meat, a pool of spit forming at her feet.

The children were in the kitchen, cooking.

When they’d finally got to them there was nothing left, just charred bones. So she’d brought the pack out to hunt in the daylight. She had to help them.

She was their mother … Was that right? Where had that thought come from? Was she the mother of the children who’d been cooking in the house? Or was she the mother of the pack? Was she the mother of them all?

Mother. Definitely a mother.

Before the worms had got into her body she had had real children. Not roasted ones. Babies of her own. Delicious babies. No, not delicious. That came later …

She snarled. Shook her head, trying to pin down her thoughts. They were tangled up, the threads of disease inside her, the roots of the knife inside her, the black lines on her skin, twisting and knotting, one thing leading to another …

Concentrate.

Where were her babies now? Where had she left them? She had no idea what had happened to them. The hard bright light bounced off the blade and drove deep into her brain. She moaned and her mind emptied. For a while no thoughts troubled her. No memories bubbled to the surface. She saw no pictures except the confusing black scrawl on her wrist. Then the blade turned, the light switched off and her mind flowered back into life. Thoughts came crowding in. She wasn’t looking at a picture of the disease, or roots from the knife, the black lines on her wrist were a tattoo. A Celtic tribal knot. Her boyfriend had one the same round his wrist …

What had happened to him? She had an image of a body covered in boils. The smell of decay. A man screaming as his face split down the middle. She pushed the memory aside and searched for happier ones. A hospital bed. A baby in a cot. A home. Polished wooden floors the colour of honey. A television. A running machine in a gym.

That was the most powerful image – the gym and all its machines. All working away together, parts of one giant machine. And there she was, watching the TV as she ran. And ran and ran and ran. Pictures on the TV now, of hospitals and doctors in white coats, talking. Not the same hospital. Not the one where she had had her baby. That was a different memory. She snarled again. No matter how hard she tried to hold on to the good memories, the bad ones were stronger. Sickness. Death. Pictures on the TV of the disease spreading. Ambulances. Hospitals overflowing with patients. Men in white coats talking …

That was all they’d ever done. Just talked. They hadn’t found a cure. There hadn’t been time …

The light stabbed at her eyes again and her memories twisted away from her, as if someone had pressed the delete button. Her screen was blank. All her memories were gone and she was back, tangled in the lines on her wrist.

Dirty. She tried to rub them off, and realized she was holding something in her other hand.

A knife.

Yes.

She had to hold on to it. Never let it go. It was power. Power over the children and power over her pack. She sniffed the air. Watched the dancing sunlight on her blade. She’d been thinking about something. What was it? Why couldn’t she fix her mind on one thing? She took in a long shuddering breath. Her lungs burned, scarred by illness. Her skin itched. Her eyes were raw; they felt like they’d been peeled. Her brain was too big for her head; the pressure gave her a permanent headache. Only one thing made the pain go away, made her thoughts slow down, only one thing gave her calm.

The blood that ran in the little ones’ veins. The flesh that wrapped their small thin bones. The life they held inside. A shame the ones in the house had got burned up, a terrible shame. It had forced her out in the daylight.

Well, from now on she was going to walk in the light. She had feared it for too long. If they hadn’t been disturbed by the hunters, forced from their den, maybe they’d never have learned.

It hurt. It confused them. But if they were careful they could survive it.

It wouldn’t be easy.

Small steps.

An hour a day. No matter how much it hurt.

Like going to the gym.

Enough. Time to go back into the darkness. She hissed to the pack and led them out of the park. As they walked down the street, shrinking from the sun’s rays, she saw something glinting. Something she needed. She walked closer.

It was a shop, and lined up in the broken window were glasses, and there, at one end, was a model head wearing sunglasses. She laughed.

Clever.

Use tools.

That was how it worked. That was what would make her strong. The mother of the pack. The rest of them were useless. They had no idea that they had once used tools, driven cars, worked in offices; their hands hadn’t just been for stuffing their stupid faces.

‘You’re fired,’ she grunted – the first words she had spoken for as long as she could remember – as she reached in for the sunglasses. Ignoring the broken glass that gashed her arm.

She lifted the glasses off the dummy. Raised them to her face. As she put them on, she started to laugh.

She had been queen of the night, now she would be queen of the day too. Tomorrow she would catch some children.

She turned her face up to the sky and screamed at the sun.

‘You’re fired. You’re fired. You’re fired. You’re fired. You’re fired. You’re fired. You’re fired. You’re fired. You’re fired …’

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