Текст книги "The Dead"

Автор книги: Charlie Higson

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

52

‘Jack, Jack … I’m sorry, Jack.’

‘You moron. You could have killed me.’

‘But you’re not dead. Thank God. How bad is it?’

‘What do you think? You shot me, you moron.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was you. I thought …’

‘Well, it was me …’

‘Jack, what have I done?’

‘You know what you’ve done. You’ve shot me.’

‘You’re not dead, though. I didn’t kill you.’

‘It only got me down the side. I’m bleeding a bit. It’s not too bad, I think. Doesn’t hurt too much. It’s lucky you’re such a rotten shot.’

‘I’m so sorry, Jack.’

‘It’s all right, Bam. It’s not your fault. I know you didn’t mean it, but I wish to God you hadn’t done it.’

‘I couldn’t see. I thought you were a sicko.’

‘Yeah, I know. I thought you were one too. There was a light, I saw a light, I think it must have been something reflecting off your gun barrel.’

‘Jesus, Jack, I really thought I’d killed you.’

‘Yeah, well, you didn’t. Better luck next time.’

‘Jack …’

‘I’m still here, Bam. Just shut up about it. We’ve got to get out of here somehow.’

‘Help!’ Bam’s voice boomed out in the darkness. ‘Hello! Help … Ed! Are you there? Help us, Ed! Where are you? Ed …’ Bam stopped shouting and the silence and the blackness felt deeper.

‘Can you see anything?’ Jack asked. ‘Any light anywhere?’

‘No, Jack, but I can feel you … You’re soaked. It’s bad, Jack, it’s bad.’

‘I feel all right, Bam. It doesn’t hurt too much. I can stand up, I think.’

‘Come on then. I’ll help you.’

‘Ow … don’t hold me there, that hurts like bugger. Ow. OK. I’m OK. I’m OK. I’m up.’

‘Which way do we go? I can’t see anything.’

‘Oh, Jesus, Bam, I don’t think I can do this, put me down, put me down …’

Bam realized that Jack had been fronting it out before. The injury was bad and he was in a lot more pain than he’d been letting on. Tears came into Bam’s eyes. He wiped them away and stared into black nothingness. And then a strange thing happened: a patch of the black started to break up and fall apart, to be replaced by a bright square, that hung like a TV screen in the darkness.

He struggled to make sense of what he was seeing.

Light. A waft of smoke and dust. Then a silhouetted head and shoulders. A voice.

‘Bam?’

‘Ed? Is that you, Ed?’

A torch shone in and Bam shielded his eyes.

‘I heard you shouting.’ It was definitely Ed’s voice. ‘I’ve been looking everywhere. Come this way. I’ll pass you a torch. Is Jack hurt?’

‘Just a bit,’ said Jack sarcastically.

‘In the explosion?’

‘No,’ said Bam, coming over to the small opening and taking the torch off Ed. ‘I shot him. I thought he was a sicko.’

Ed swore. ‘We’ve got to get you out of there fast,’ he said. ‘See if you can pull down any more of this wall of rubble.’

With Bam working from one side and Ed from the other they set to, moving lumps of concrete until they’d made a big enough hole for Bam to be able to get out. Then Ed shone his torch in to guide Bam back to Jack. Bam saw that they’d fallen into some sort of underground sports hall. Part of the roof was caved in and there was a mound of dead bodies at the far end.

He went back over to Jack and swore again when he saw the state of him. His whole left-hand side was covered in bright red blood crusted with dirt. His shirt and jacket were ragged. He groaned as Bam hauled him to his feet and manhandled him to the opening. Ed helped them both out into the corridor on the other side. There was smoke everywhere, and the sound of flames. The structure of the building had been badly damaged. Big cracks zigzagged up the walls, and chips of concrete and little rivulets of dust were falling everywhere.

Ed and Bam got under Jack’s shoulders and the three of them blundered their way to a staircase that led up to ground level. Jack cursing. Bam fretting. Ed just glad they were all alive.

‘I didn’t fall through,’ he explained as they made it out of the stand through some shattered glass doors. It was a relief to get out of the building, although the air outside wasn’t much cleaner. ‘The explosion threw me off the pitch into the stands,’ Ed went on. ‘I don’t know how long I was unconscious, but when I came round I figured you two must have got buried underground somewhere. I managed to get outside and find this torch in an ambulance. It’s crazy, the whole place is on fire, but at least it’s got rid of the sickos.’

‘It’s lucky you heard us shouting,’ said Bam.

‘Yeah, well, when I got back here I thought it was hopeless,’ said Ed. ‘I went down to the lower level and half the place was collapsed. Then I heard a shot. I couldn’t believe it. When you started shouting I finally worked out where you were.’

They were skirting the stands, making their way to the main gates where they’d first come in. There was a creak and a rumble from the building.

‘It’s collapsing,’ said Ed. ‘We need to get well away from here, then we’ll see how bad you are, Jack.’

‘I’m fine,’ Jack insisted. ‘It’s not as bad as it looks.’

‘I hope so. Because it looks terrible.’

Swirls of black smoke carrying ashes and cinders billowed around the security vehicles and there was a sickening stink coming from the fire. Roasting flesh and blazing fat mixed with the bitter, choking stench of burning hair and bones, not to mention the smell of all the plastic and chemicals and building materials that were poisoning the atmosphere. Bam and Jack had lost their masks in the fall and Ed stopped just long enough to hand them fresh ones from his pack. Then they struggled on, half carrying, half dragging Jack between them. Ed had had to get rid of his rifle. It had been damaged in the explosion – the bayonet had snapped in half – and it was too awkward trying to carry it and Jack at the same time. Bam was limping badly. His legs were more badly hurt than he’d realized but at least he could walk. Jack grunted and complained as they jostled him along.

They headed to the main road and carried on south-east, towards Clapham. Behind them a vast column of smoke rose from the ruined Oval. Flames at the base of the column leapt and spurted skywards as if trying to escape. The roar was deafening and the surrounding buildings were already getting covered in a layer of soot and ash. The boys hadn’t gone far when they heard the first of the vehicles explode.

‘Looks like we got out just in time,’ said Ed, glancing back at the devastation. ‘We need to keep moving.’

They walked a long way before Ed reckoned it was safe to stop and they broke into an office building. They thought it would be easier to fix Jack up in here than out on the street. There were no signs of any sickos. It was clean and dry and quiet. A black leather and chrome sofa stood in the reception area. They sat Jack down on it and Ed took off his backpack.

Jack looked awful. His skin was almost bone white, making his birthmark stand out even more vividly. His torn clothes were soaked with blood.

‘We need to take a proper look at you,’ said Ed.

‘It’s only on the surface, I think,’ said Jack. ‘It must be, otherwise why isn’t it hurting more?’

‘Whatever. You’re still losing a lot of blood.’

Ed opened Jack’s coat and put his fingers to his shirt buttons, but Jack stopped him, pushing his hand away.

‘Don’t, Ed,’ he said. ‘Just leave it. I’d rather not know.’

‘If you don’t want to look, fine. But we’ve got to at least bandage you, Jack.’

Jack thought about it, biting his lip. ‘All right,’ he said, turning his head away.

Ed unbuttoned Jack’s shirt and peeled it back.

‘Oh, crap, Jack. That does not look good.’

Jack’s left-hand side was peppered with red marks that ran from his chest down to his trousers. Some were merely bloody dents, but some were actual holes.

‘There’s probably still shot in there,’ said Bam, looking at the nasty punctures that dribbled blood down Jack’s pale skin. ‘If we don’t get that out, you’ll get infected, mate.’

‘Can we get it out?’ Jack asked.

‘I don’t know.’ Bam shrugged. ‘I don’t know, Jack. I don’t know how deep it is. I’m not a doctor.’

‘Then I’m buggered, basically.’

‘We should get you back to the museum,’ said Bam. ‘Someone there might know what to do.’

‘No,’ said Jack angrily. ‘How many times do I have to tell you I’m going home? Look, what’s this?’

Jack’s hand clutched at something that was hanging round his neck on an old leather bootlace.

‘It’s a key,’ said Bam.

‘Exactly,’ said Jack. ‘My front-door key, to be precise. I’ve kept it with me from the start. Because I always knew that one day I was going to go home and let myself into my own front door. I don’t know why you two came along on this. All you’ve done is try and persuade me to go back. You’d do anything to stop me getting home, wouldn’t you? Even shoot me!’

‘It was an accident.’

‘I know it was a bloody accident, Bam. I was making a joke.’

‘Bam’s right, though,’ said Ed. ‘I got some stuff off the ambulance, but you’d be better off back at the museum.’

‘My house is nearer,’ said Jack bluntly. ‘And I don’t feel like I can go very far like this. Clean the wounds, bandage me up and get me home. Anything you haven’t got on you, I don’t know, tweezers, scalpels, whatever you need, we can probably find there. And then we’ll look at the damage properly. Deal?’

‘All right, yes. We’ll do that,’ said Ed, unpacking his medical supplies. ‘But you’re a stubborn bastard, Jack.’

‘Exactly. Too stubborn to die, that’s me! Iron Jack, the armour-plated man.’ He gave a little twisted smile, then closed his eyes before he started crying.

53

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.

He may have been sick but he was still stronger than Ed who was losing his grip on Greg’s wrist.

Then Jack was with him, making a grab for the cleaver.

‘No, Jack!’ Ed yelled. ‘You’re hurt. I can do this.’

‘It’s all right,’ said Jack.

Just then Greg’s arm slipped out of Ed’s hand and the cleaver came round. Jack gasped and fell back, but Greg was thrown off balance. Ed let go of his neck and slammed the heel of his palm into Greg’s windpipe. Greg coughed and went limp, dropping his weapon. As he staggered backwards, taking tiny, dainty steps, Ed scrabbled to pick up the fallen cleaver.

His fingers closed around the slippery handle and he twisted round to face Greg.

He was standing there, fighting for breath, wide open, an easy target.

Ed didn’t have to think twice. The killing rage was on him again. He moved in …

And then he saw what Greg was carrying under his arm, what had looked at first like the sort of pitiful bundle of rags that a street person would carry around.

Only it wasn’t rags. It was a small dead body.

‘Liam?’ said Ed.

It was like a switch had been thrown in Greg’s head. The madness was gone and for a moment he was human again. He looked down at the creased, purple face of his son and wailed in horror.

Then he looked at Ed, shook his head and ran off down the road towards the common.

Ed ran a few paces after him, then stopped. He wanted to follow him, to try to finish it, but he couldn’t leave his friends. There might be other sickos around.

He went back. Jack was lying curled up into a ball, clutching his stomach. But, thank God, he was still alive. Ed knelt down and put a hand to him.

‘Jack?’

‘He cut me, Ed. He cut me open.’

‘I’ll get you home.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Jack grunted. ‘Too stubborn to die, remember? But how’s that big idiot, Bam? Is he OK? I want to tell him I don’t blame him. It wasn’t his fault.’

Ed went over to Bam. It was no good. It was all crap. There were no happy endings. Nobody watching over them. Only misery and struggle. And what for? Good people died as well as bad.

Greg’s cleaver had split open the back of Bam’s skull.

He was gone.

Ed sat down in the middle of the road and wept.