Текст книги "The Dead"

Автор книги: Charlie Higson

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

46

Jack and Ed followed Bam out into the sunlight. He was standing there, frozen to the spot, too stunned to say anything.

They were way up in a high-tech modern stand, a gleaming white construction of steel and concrete and glass. And below them was the vast expanse of the cricket pitch, every part of it filled with dead bodies. They were stacked in great mounds like a giant rubbish tip. The ones at the bottom were the most decomposed. If it wasn’t for their bright clothing and the bones sticking out here and there, they wouldn’t have been recognizable as human at all. The ones at the top were the freshest, though even they had been eaten away by disease and decay.

There were several earth-moving vehicles standing idle. Diggers and bulldozers, JCBs, even a couple of cranes with scoops dangling from their gantries. One scoop still held a few bodies.

And there were more bodies in the stands, dumped in the rows of green plastic seats, sitting there, like dead spectators at the ultimate gladiator fight. How many dead? Five thousand, ten thousand, a hundred thousand? Looking out over the mounds of corpses it was impossible to tell.

The noise Ed had heard was flies, millions of them, swarming over the dead. They were not alone. Crows hopped about, rats crawled, seagulls flapped and screeched and squabbled with each other. Two dogs were digging into one of the piles of flesh to get at the bones.

‘Treasure beyond our wildest dreams,’ said Ed bitterly.

Jack and Bam said nothing.

Ed noticed several towers made out of logs and planks and scrap wood, like giant bonfires. They had large blue plastic canisters strapped to them. There were more canisters fixed around the stands.

‘This place is one giant funeral pyre,’ he said. ‘Looks like they were planning to burn the whole bloody lot. Or blow it sky high.’

‘They had the right idea,’ said Jack.

Ed leant over, pulled his mask down and threw up on to a seat. His head was spinning and throbbed with an intense cold ache.

‘We’ve got to get out of here,’ he groaned. ‘This is hell.’

But as they turned to leave they heard the sound of heavy footsteps climbing the stairs.

Ed felt a wave of fear and panic. He didn’t need to look to know what was happening.

The sickos were coming.

They were trapped now. They were going to die here. They were going to join this heap of human compost, forgotten, like bags of rubbish tossed out for the bin men.

Ed’s mind was racing faster than his heart. He couldn’t think straight. A tangle of images were tumbling in his mind like the wheeling knot of seagulls over the corpse pile. Images of death and decay. But one thought kept poking through, beating all the others back, and he clung on to it.

He didn’t want to die. It was as simple as that. He would do anything to stay alive.

The thought was terribly strong and clear.

He wanted to see the summer.

‘We need to find another way out,’ he said. ‘There are sickos coming up the stairs.’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘Then who is it, Jack? The undead police come to help us?’

Before Jack could say anything in reply the first of the sickos appeared at the entrance to the stairs. Three fathers. Sniffing the air. Searching for their prey.

Jack raised his machine gun. Ed saw that it was trembling in his hands. ‘We could shoot them?’

‘You don’t know how to work that bloody thing,’ Ed snapped. ‘We can outrun them, though.’

He looked around for an escape. There was an external staircase here leading to the lower seating levels. They charged down it, crashing into the metal sides as they rounded the corners, until they reached the bottom. They quickly took in their situation. The nearest exit was blocked by one of the ominous stacks of blue canisters. The boys realized that the best means of escape would be to get down on to the pitch where a narrow strip of open grass had been left around the side of the corpse piles. They started to climb over the seats, pushing past the bodies that had been dumped there.

As Ed was clambering over a middle-aged mother in a weird floral sun hat, however, she reached out a hand and tried to take hold of his jacket. He jumped back. The mother hauled herself up out of the seat and puckered her lips and dribbled at Ed, as if she was getting ready to kiss him. Ed shoved her away and she fell into the next seat, waking a hairless father who flailed at Ed with long dirty fingernails.

‘They’re not dead,’ Ed yelled. ‘They’re not all dead!’

All around them sickos were rising from the seats and shuffling towards them, and now Ed saw that there were more live ones down on the pitch, moving along the narrow pathways that divided the mounds.

The boys vaulted over seats, knocking sickos out of their way, stepping on dead bodies, slipping in filth, doing whatever it took to get down. As they reached the bottom, two young mothers on the edge of the pitch made a lunge for them and Bam fired off both barrels of his shotgun, not taking any chances.

The mothers went down and Bam fumbled to reload his gun.

One barrel at a time, he told himself, jiggling the shells into the holes. Just fire one barrel at a time. Keep something back.

‘There’s a way out over there,’ Ed shouted, pointing to an exit from the pitch over near the old stand. They sprinted towards it past a wall of decomposing flesh on one side and the live sickos in the stands on the other, who were all coming down towards the pitch, some walking, some crawling, the younger ones moving faster, others stumbling, barely able to move, and as they came they dislodged the ones that had given up, who fell out of their seats.

It was impossible to tell which were dead and which alive. They were all covered in sores and boils and soft rotten patches.

The boys thought they were home free, the exit was just metres away, but then something moved ahead of them, and a cascade of dead bodies tumbled down from one of the piles directly into their path.

They had no choice. They would have to climb over them.

They tried, but it was like wading through deep mud. The bodies were so soft they gave way beneath their feet and the boys found themselves treading in shredded skin and innards.

‘Look out!’ Ed shouted.

A large group of sickos had got on to the pitch and was approaching from behind.

Jack raised his machine gun, fiddled with it, tried the trigger.

Nothing.

The sickos moved nearer.

He thumbed off the safety catch.

Tried the trigger again.

Nothing.

He swore and shook the gun. Tried another catch.

He yelled as the gun suddenly jumped and jerked in his hands, seeming to fire itself, spraying bullets everywhere except at the advancing sickos. Jack let go of the trigger in fright, but one of the bullets must have struck a canister, for the next moment there was an almighty bang and flames leapt into the air along with an ugly mess of body parts and a horrible reddish-brown spray.

The boys, along with most of the sickos, were knocked off their feet. They went sprawling against the hoarding around the edge of the stands and smashed painfully into the wood and plastic. They landed in a pile of sticky wetness and Ed was insanely grateful for the mask that was still clamped to his face.

This really was hell.

It was raining rotten flesh. A fire had started. A clutch of sickos ran past them, clothed in flames. They crashed into another stack of canisters and there was a second explosion.

The whole stadium seemed to be alight now.

The boys seized their opportunity and stumbled, dazed and disorientated, towards the exit. The open gate was tantalizingly close. But they had to wade through body parts and unmentionable filth to get there.

‘Come on!’ Ed yelled, breaking away from the others. ‘We can do it –’

The next thing he knew he was running in silence in mid-air. The ground beneath his feet seemed suddenly to rise up and then just disappear. At the same time the air contracted around him, squeezing the breath out of him, crushing his chest, popping his eardrums. He didn’t hear a bang so much as feel it. There was a blinding brightness and a bottomless darkness at the same time. Up became down and inside became out. Slowly, slowly, slowly an avalanche of dead bodies collapsed on top of him and smoke billowed towards him in a grey mushroom cloud that grew and grew until he was embraced by sweet, soft, silent oblivion.

47

Frédérique was alone in the women’s toilet at the museum. Only her hands showed any signs of life as they fiddled in her lap, twining and intertwining, her fingernails picking at the skin. A drip of moisture fell from her nose and she shivered. Inside, though, she felt hot, like she was cooking. Her insides were writhing and churning. Her stomach cramping. Her heart beating too fast. Every few minutes she gave a little dry cough that sent a spasm of pain through her lungs.

She was in one of the stalls, sitting on a toilet with the lid down. The kids in the museum didn’t use the toilets any more. They had buckets for that, which they emptied outside. The water they had was too precious to waste flushing down the loo.

She had come here to be alone, away from the noise of the other kids. Their constant chatter was starting to hurt her ears. She knew she should be happy. The day had gone well. Justin had eventually managed to get the lorry back to the museum, and they’d stopped round the back near to some loading-bay doors. The boys at the museum had been ridiculously over-excited when they’d seen what Justin and DogNut and the girls had brought back for them. It had lifted the younger ones out of their state of hungry, depressed boredom, and they’d celebrated by having a proper lunch. Or as proper as you could get out of cold tins.

It was while they’d been eating lunch that Frédérique had started to feel unwell. The food tasted weird and smelt of rotting plants and cows and fields and compost and toilets. Even now, thinking about it, it was making her mouth fill with vinegary saliva, and bile was rising up her throat. She thought she might be sick. She could picture what she’d eaten, sitting in her belly, sending out roots and tendrils and spores, living inside her …

Sitting there in the café, trying to eat, a headache had lodged behind her eyes that she couldn’t shift, despite digging into the precious supply of painkillers she kept in her purse. The noise in the café, with all the kids talking at once, had slowly driven her mad.

She needed quiet. Only she couldn’t find any quiet. Not even alone here in the toilets. There seemed to be a constant babble of voices inside her head, all shouting and arguing at the same time. Screaming sometimes. The pressure was awful. Just awful. Every now and then she put her head down between her knees and moaned softly, then the pressure would press down hard on her eyes and she got scared that they were going to fall out on to the toilet floor or simply explode.

She rubbed the back of her head, at the base of her skull, trying to massage the tension away. It didn’t make any difference but she carried on anyway, rubbing and rubbing until her hand came away bloody.

If only Jack hadn’t gone. She could talk to him. Jack would know what to do. She’d been frightened of him at first with that strange birthmark on his face. But not any more. He was the nicest of them all, the kindest.

So why had he gone? The bastard.

The sudden flare of rage burned itself out as quickly as it had come on.

Her stomach was gurgling. A boiling mess of acid bubbled up her throat, scalding it. She had eaten something bad. That was it. The food had been on the lorry for a long time, after all. The stuff in cans had sell-by dates months away, but even so …

The voices in her head erupted, yelling at her.

It’s not the food – not the food – you know what it is – why won’t you admit it – you coward – it’s not the food – the kids – they’re all bastards – Jack left you – nobody gives a shit …

‘Tais-toi!’

She clamped her hands either side of her head and her fingers ran over a cluster of little bumps that were nestling behind her ears, like insect bites.

They hadn’t been there before.

She stood up. All her muscles felt stiff and it hurt to move, but she forced herself to stand and walk out of the cubicle. The toilet was underground and she had brought a little candle down with her that she had left by the basins. It seemed suddenly very bright and Frédérique gave a cry and shielded her eyes. She staggered over to the row of mirrors, eyes pressed nearly shut, and looked at her reflection.

She didn’t like what she saw.

She was thinner than ever. Her lips were cracked and dry, peeling. Her eyes and nose rimmed with red. She lifted her long hair to look at the side of her neck.

‘Oh, mon dieu, non …’

48

Bam didn’t know if his eyes were open or not. He was in a world of blackness. As far as he could work out the explosion had ripped through the ground and he’d ended up somewhere below the pitch. All he knew for sure was that he was sitting on a cold hard floor with his back against a wall. The air was thick with dust and his mouth full of grit. He was bruised and aching all over, but the pain was bearable, which was something. His legs hurt the most. He could wiggle his toes, though, so he assumed that nothing was broken.

He could cope with a few bumps and bruises. What he couldn’t cope with was the complete darkness. Either the light had been blocked by falling rubble or the explosion had blinded him.

He had felt around with his hands when he had first regained consciousness. There was a dead body next to him. Long dead. It was cold and soft and putrid. He wanted to get away from it, but he was too scared, because there was something else moving about down here with him, snuffling and sniffing and searching in the dark. Every few seconds he could hear its feet scrape on the floor.

Bam was trying to keep utterly still and utterly quiet. It wasn’t easy. He had to keep breathing. The dust in his mouth and nose made him want to sneeze. His left leg was at an awkward angle and he desperately wanted to move it. But he couldn’t risk it. He was scared even to swallow in case it made a noise.

He still had the shotgun in his hand, which was something. As far as he could remember, he had reloaded it and cocked it before the cave-in, but he wasn’t a hundred per cent sure. There was a strong chance that he might pull the trigger and there would be a small, pathetic click and nothing more. He couldn’t check it. It would give him away. He gripped the double triggers tightly. If the thing came too close he would pull them and hope for the best.

He had no choice.

The thing, whatever it was, a mother or a father, there was no way of telling in the dark, moved again. He heard the dry rasp of its feet.

They could smell you, couldn’t they? That’s what they did. They sniffed the air. And there was probably more than one of them down here. They’d find him and he wouldn’t be able to fight back because he couldn’t see them. He couldn’t see anything. He could imagine them, though, a group of them slowly creeping towards him in the darkness, worm-eaten, puffy and insane. Closing in, step by step, leaving slippery trails of saliva on the floor.

There!

The scuff of a shoe.

It was definitely closer.

He could hear it breathing.

Bam was beginning to feel faint. He wasn’t taking in enough oxygen. The darkness seemed to be closing in on him, shrinking around him, crushing him. He wanted to be out in the sunshine, in the fresh air, running up a sports field with a ball in his hands.

He wanted to see his enemy. In the daylight he was the bravest boy in the world. He would tackle players twice his size. He was Bam the tank.

Not down here, though, not in the dark, covered in filth, alone.

Another scuff. Closer still. Only feet away.

Where were his friends? What had happened to them? Had they died in the explosion? He wanted to cry out, to shout for help, but that would only bring the shambling thing in the dark nearer.

But where were they?

Where were his friends?

49

Jack, too, was in the dark, wandering lost and alone, moving as fast as he dared, desperately searching for Ed and Bam. His throat was hurting, raw, as if someone had scraped it with a wire brush. His vocal cords felt scalded and strangled. He’d tried to cry out but the dust and the pain and the tightness had prevented him from making anything more than a gurgling, choking sound.

His head was ringing. He thought he might have been deafened by the explosion. All he could make out above the whistling, whiny noise that filled his ears were dull muffled sounds that could have been inside his head.

He’d been terrified that something like this would happen. He hadn’t wanted to be responsible for the others, hadn’t wanted Bam and Ed to come along with him. He’d tried to get away from them all and now he was responsible. It was his fault they’d ended up down here. Wherever here was.

So now he had to find his friends, to rescue them.

It was up to him.

It wasn’t easy. He was stumbling along, arms held out in front, groping at the blackness, feeling for any walls or obstructions, head tucked down, cringing away from anything it might bash against. And all the while his sore, gritty eyes flicked around in their sockets, searching for any clues as to where he was, and how he might ever get out of here.

Look!

Was he imagining it? No. It was real. A small chink of light. If he could just get to it he’d be able to find his bearings. He had to admit he was no use to anyone like this, blind and dumb and confused. But if he could find a way out he could go back to help the others. One of those dead soldiers or policemen outside must have a torch on them. Providing there still was an outside. Who knew how much damage that last explosion had done? Maybe he was buried down here under tons of rubble and dead bodies …

Don’t think about that.

The most important thing was to escape, and then sort himself out and go back to look for the others. Nothing could happen to Bam and Ed in the meantime, not down here in the dark.

He froze. Something had moved in front of him, shifted slightly. The tiny spot of light had flickered. There was something up ahead.

He stood as still as he could, straining to see anything in the pitch darkness, straining to hear anything. But there was only the throb and hiss of his own blood surging around his body.

He couldn’t stay like this forever, though. He had to move.

Then a thought struck him. He couldn’t see in the dark, but neither could the sickos. They would be just as lost as him. He forced a smile. What was the worst they could do?

He got ready to run towards that welcoming chink of light.

50

Thirty-four, thirty-three, thirty-two …

Bam was counting down from fifty in his head. When he got to one, he would do something. Fight back. Get up. Take control. The sicko was still there, he could tell.

Eighteen, seventeen, sixteen, fifteen …

Come on, you diseased bag of pus. Let me know where you are.

Move, damn you.

And then it did move. Suddenly it was coming straight for him. And coming fast.

Bam yelled in fright and pulled the trigger at the same time. Firing one barrel. There was a whoomph! and a bright flare as the charge in the cartridge exploded, sending shot spraying out towards his attacker. It was over almost before it had started. Like a camera flash going off. But it lasted long enough for Bam to see a body falling back, arms thrown wide, the white face splashed with red down one side, eyes wide in terror and surprise.

Jack’s face.

51

The kids were playing in the atrium, the younger ones chasing each other around among the tanks and vehicles. Nobody could remember being this happy for weeks. Jordan Hordern had been to see them. He was impressed by the lorry and had officially invited the newcomers to stay and share in everything they had. He’d organized some of his boys into a team to bring a few of the cages inside. Justin had even worked out how to operate the lift at the back of the lorry that brought them down to the ground. There were too many to shift in one go and they’d had to leave half of them on the lorry securely locked away from any marauding sickos.

Brooke, Aleisha and Courtney sat on a bench watching the fun. Wiki, Jibber-jabber, Zohra, Froggie and a couple of Matt’s younger acolytes were dashing about yelling and shrieking. Frédérique had even joined in. She’d been moody since lunch, but now she seemed almost hysterically happy, like she’d become a little kid again.

Froggie ran over.

‘Save me!’ he shouted, and Aleisha jumped up. She was hardly taller than Froggie, but she wrapped her arms round him protectively.

‘I’ll save you!’ she said. ‘Just pretend I’m your mum!’

Froggie pressed his face into her body. ‘Can I?’ he asked quietly.

Aleisha smiled and kissed the top of his head. ‘Course you can, little man.’

Brooke jeered at her friend. ‘Look at you, being mum again. What’s with you, girl?’

‘She’s nice,’ said Froggie.

‘She’s too nice,’ said Brooke. ‘It ain’t right.’

‘What game you playing, anyway?’ Aleisha asked.

‘Zombies!’ said Froggie.

‘You are joking me! Zombies?’ Aleisha shook her head, laughing in disbelief.

‘They’re doing the right thing,’ said Brooke. ‘You go for it, Froglet. Show them sickos we ain’t scared of them.’

‘Ain’t we?’ said Aleisha.

‘No we ain’t,’ said Brooke. ‘We done it. We went out there and we merked them good! We won them. We wasn’t just sitting around biting our nails and going “Deary me, whatever can we do, we’re all going to die.” We fighting back, yeah? That’s what we gonna do from now on, fight back.’

‘You said it, girl.’ Courtney bumped Brooke’s clenched fist, then turned to Aleisha. ‘They not so tough. By theyselves they rubbish, just weak and, like, stupid, yeah? But in big groups they way bad, they can, like, overdo you. No. What’s the word? Not, like, overdo. Over something? Overword? Overwell?’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Brooke. ‘What word?’

‘When you get, like, overwhelmed by something.’

‘That’s it! That’s the word.’

‘What?’

‘Overwhelm, you idiot.’

‘Oh yeah, I said it. Overwhelm!’

The three of them laughed. It felt so good. Whenever they laughed it felt as if heavy weights were being lifted from their backs.

Aleisha let Froggie go and he ran off. Aleisha watched him for a while then a cloud passed over her face and she grew serious.

‘Are we alone?’ she asked, sitting down.

Brooke looked at her.

‘How d’you mean alone?’

‘I mean – is this it? Us here. Are we, like, all that’s left?’

‘I don’t know. Can’t answer that.’

‘Is only because we haven’t met no other kids since we got here. And we didn’t see none out on the streets today, did we?’

‘Don’t mean there ain’t none out there,’ said Brooke. ‘I reckon there must be loads more kids around. Somewhere. Hiding. All in they own little groups. I’ll bet you there’s an identical group of kids to us going through all the same things as we are, having their own adventures, living, dying, finding food … laughing.’

‘Farting,’ said Courtney.

‘I’m serious, Courtney. We ain’t alone.’

‘And I’m serious too.’ Courtney gave an evil grin and then the others smelt it. They jumped up from the bench and backed away, holding their noses and cursing Courtney.

Frédérique ran past, her long hair flying. Eyes and mouth wide. She was chasing Zohra, who was screaming happily. Frédérique screamed too, copying the younger girl, forcing out a long, thin, impossibly high note that seemed to fill the whole atrium. It was the only way she could shut out the other sounds the kids were making. The loud breathing, hearts beating, blood flowing through veins, food being digested, the thoughts yammering inside their heads. So many voices. Drone, drone, drone, gibbering on about nothing.

It wasn’t just her hearing that was better; all her senses had been boosted. She could smell so much more, feel so much more, see so much more. Things were so bright it hurt her eyes, blinding her. The light burrowed into her head. She could feel it as it came in through her eye then down the optic nerve straight into her brain. Like someone was shining a torch into her mind, lighting it up.

Everything was very clear now. Clear and sharp and glowing and bright. She understood so many things she hadn’t known before. The light had unlocked all this hidden stuff, sent her brain spinning. The others couldn’t know that, the children. The stupid little children.

Because that’s all they were. Children.

Stupid-stupid-stupid …

What did they know? Her brain was supercharged, like a sports car; they wouldn’t understand that. They were wandering in the dark, like cave people. Their brains were solid and heavy and slow; hers was spinning so fast in her head it was getting hot.

She bit her knuckle, tasted blood. Like touching battery terminals with your tongue. A flash of electricity, metal, food, red, water, life.

She was changing. That was it. Evolving into a higher being. Like a caterpillar becoming a chrysalis becoming a butterfly. Her brain was turning to liquid and it would reform as something spectacular.

Yes.

She was becoming a super-being.

Not like these stupid-stupid-stupid … what was the word?

Enfants.

She laughed. Why had she been scared before? There was nothing to be afraid of. She was changing into something … magnificent.

Froggie and Wiki ran away from Frédérique and hid behind a tank.

Froggie was fighting to catch his breath.

‘She’s scary,’ he gasped. ‘I hope she doesn’t catch me.’

‘You’re fast,’ said Wiki. ‘You can outrun her.’

‘It feels really weird to be going crazy in a museum. You’re never usually allowed to run around.’

‘It’s actually quite funny you should say that, about going crazy here,’ said Wiki. ‘You know what this place used to be? This building?’

‘No,’ said Froggie. ‘What?’

‘Bedlam.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Its proper name was the Bethlem Royal Hospital. For mad people.’

‘A loony bin?’ said Froggie, his big eyes wide.

‘Yes. It was nicknamed Bedlam. It’s where the word comes from.’

‘What word?’ said Froggie.

‘Never mind.’

‘Is there anything you don’t know?’ Froggie asked.

‘There are lots of things I don’t know,’ said Wiki seriously.

‘What’s the weirdest thing you know?’

‘I know how to say “the toenails of my grandfather’s elder brother are stiff” in Indonesian.’

‘Yeah? Go on then.’

‘OK – Kuku-kuku kaki kakak kakekku kaku kaku.’

‘You made that up.’

‘No I didn’t. It’s true. “Kuku-kuku kaki kakak kakekku kaku kaku” means “the toenails of my grandfather’s elder brother are stiff” in Indonesian. Now look out! She’s coming!’

Frédérique could smell them. Hiding behind the tank. Oh, they were ripe. Fresh and ripe. Not like the muck she’d been forced to eat at lunch. That had been poisoned, she was sure of it now; the other children had tried to poison her – they’d never liked her. She was different in some way. And they knew it. She wasn’t one of them.

She was French.

They’d been hiding the good food. Keeping it for themselves. But she knew how to get at it. It was inside them.

The smell of them was making her salivate. Her mouth was full of liquid. It spilt over her lips. God, but she was hungry.

There they were, the two boys, two little piggies. She breathed in their stench, could already taste them. The smaller one, Froggie. He would be so tender. The soft flesh. The blood. Young and fresh and alive, electric, pulsing, pure, and full of red, red life …

She was gripped by a spasm that sent her whole body rigid. It felt like all her bones must break, snap under the strain. Electricity was running through her, power, fire, metal, red, food …

Zohra was watching Frédérique move in on Froggie and Wiki.

‘Get away!’ she shouted, glad it wasn’t her over there. Frédérique was too good at this game. She was making it too real. Froggie and Wiki were bumping into each other and yelling as they tried to dodge the tall girl’s grasping hands.

‘Run, Froggie!’ Zohra was laughing so much she thought she might be sick. The boys looked like something out of a speeded-up comedy film.

Then Frédérique howled and grabbed hold of Froggie’s arm.

Froggie shrieked.

‘She’s caught me!’

Frédérique bared her teeth, brought Froggie’s arm up to her mouth and bit down hard.