Текст книги "The Dead"

Автор книги: Charlie Higson

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Текущая страница: 23 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

73

As soon as Ed cut one sicko down, another took its place. It was like trying to empty an ocean with a bucket. He was plastered with blood and pus that stiffened as it dried. His arms ached from the wrists to the shoulders; the rifle felt as heavy as a telegraph pole. All around him the road was littered with bits of bodies and his feet kept slipping in puddles of blood. Wounded sickos crawled away or sat there stunned among the shapeless lumps of their dead companions.

The kids were completely boxed in now, crushed up against the front line of the sickos. They’d been reduced to just pushing and shoving in a great heaving mass of bodies. Ed stopped a beat too long and even he was swamped. One moment there was still room to swing his rifle, the next he was wrestling with a sweaty policeman who seemed to be trying to speak.

‘Hold them,’ Ed croaked. ‘We’ve got to try and hold them!’

But then something gave way behind them. The crowd of waiting kids moved and Ed found himself staggering backwards. He stumbled over a corpse, got his footing back, and then tripped again as three mothers charged at him.

He went down heavily, jarring his spine. A knee got him in the face and for a moment he was dazed. He was in a tangle of legs, like when you fell over in a rugby scrum.

Another boy had fallen near him and was being dragged away by a group of fathers as he twisted and squirmed in their hands and tried to pull free.

There was another scuffle going on to his left. Sickos had got to a girl. He could only see her lower half. A young mother had hold of her club, another was tugging at her sleeves and the girl had nothing to fight back with.

She was pulled to the ground and Ed realized to his horror that it was Aleisha. Even if he could get back on to his feet there were too many people between the two of them to get to her in time.

He watched helplessly as a teenage girl with long hair flapping in her face lunged down at Aleisha. Aleisha struggled, but the other girl took hold of her and sank her teeth into her forearm. Aleisha screamed and hit out at her attacker with her free hand. The long-haired teenager ignored the feeble blows and dragged Aleisha deeper into the ranks of the sickos.

Ed remembered his pistol. He forced himself into a kneeling position, wrenched the gun from its holster and aimed.

For a second the crush of bodies parted and he had a clear shot.

The girl with the long hair turned. Her hair whipped back and Ed could clearly see her face. She stared at Ed and suddenly the wildness drained out of her features.

It was Frédérique.

She frowned and smiled sadly at Ed. Then she held out her hands towards him like someone begging for money.

Ed pulled the trigger.

One moment Fred was there, the next she was gone.

And then Ed was knocked over again. His face hit the tarmac and he saw stars. Somehow he managed to wriggle on to his back, spitting and half blinded, only to find himself looking up into the gaping, dripping, wet face of Pez, his lower jaw swinging like a pendulum.

Ed tried to bring the gun round but he could barely move. His body seemed to be working in slow motion. Pez dropped on top of him, trapping his arm against his chest. The stink coming out of the red hole of his throat made Ed retch. He thought he was about to throw up. Pez pressed his mouth against Ed’s face, but he couldn’t bite. Ed felt his tongue slithering over his skin, saw his mad, pink eyes. Felt his fingers clawing at him.

He groaned.

And then there was a movement. Ed was dimly aware of someone plunging a weapon into the sicko. Pez flopped to the side, wriggled horribly, his feet drumming on the ground, and then fell still. Whoever had attacked him put a foot to the dead body.

It was the square-headed boy.

‘Filthy bloody animal,’ he said, pulling the tines of his fork out of Pez’s chest. And then he reached down and hauled Ed to his feet.

Ed filled his burning lungs with oxygen and his head began to clear. He glanced around. Matt and his bunch were in the middle of the church gardens waving their banner. They appeared to be singing and chanting. Other kids were regrouping around them. Ed and the boy with the fork cut their way over to them, picking up Courtney as they went. She had Aleisha with her, thank God. She looked terrible, though, bleeding badly and trembling, her face tight with shock.

When they got to the gardens, there was some degree of protection from the railings that surrounded them and Ed quickly took in their situation. There was progress on the bridge finally. Kids were pouring across it. The lorry was more than halfway over. But Ed’s war party had become separated from the main group, and the way back to them was cut off by sickos.

To make matters worse, the fire had finally reached them and was rampaging through Lambeth Palace and the apartment block on either side of the road. It wouldn’t be long before it reached the small church.

Ed had a strong urge to give up again, but then he realized the boy with the fork was grinning at him.

‘This is fun, isn’t it?’ he said.

‘Dunno about that.’ Ed shook his head. ‘But thanks for saving my arse. What’s your name, by the way? I’m Ed.’

‘Kyle,’ said the boy.

‘Well, Kyle.’ Ed pointed towards the bridge. ‘We’re gonna have to get over there somehow, or we’re gonna be stuck here.’

‘OK.’ Kyle’s grin widened. ‘I’m with you, mate.’

Ed smiled. Somehow the boy’s insane enthusiasm had got to him. Maybe it wasn’t impossible. The two of them formed the remaining kids into a tight unit, with the best fighters along the outer edge, ready to battle their way through the sickos.

‘Make some noise!’ Ed yelled when they were ready and then they charged out of the gardens, roaring a battle cry.

It was hopeless, though, a case of two steps forward, three steps back. There were just too damned many sickos blocking their way. Instead of moving towards the bridge the kids were being forced off to the right, on to the road that ran eastwards alongside the river. The bridge was getting further away. Ed looked for the lorry but couldn’t see it any more. He hoped that the other kids at least were going to get to safety.

74

Zohra was sitting at the back of the lorry pointing out at the London skyline.

‘You see that, Froggie?’ she said. ‘What’s that?’

Froggie leant over his sister and peered along the river.

His bulgy eyes opened wide.

There it was, silhouetted against the flame-bright sky, sparks exploding in the air behind it.

‘The London Eye.’

‘See?’ said Zohra. ‘Looks just like it does on the telly at New Year, doesn’t it? With the fireworks and everything.’

‘Yeah,’ said Froggie, lost in the magic of it. ‘It’s amazing.’

‘And there’s the Houses of Parliament, with Big Ben and that.’

‘Yeah.’ Froggie smiled at his sister, his wide frog mouth stretching from ear to ear. She put her arm round him.

‘We’re gonna be all right, little frog,’ she said.

Chris Marker sat with the cage of books he’d rescued from the museum, but for once he wasn’t reading anything. He didn’t know if it was caused by the fear and stress, the tiredness and hunger, but he was seeing things. Out of the corner of his eye: a grey shape that would dissolve if he tried to look at it straight on. He was sure it was the ghost from the museum, the Grey Lady. When he closed his eyes he could picture her clearly. Her skin was as grey as her old-fashioned clothes, but she didn’t look diseased, instead she looked beautiful, as if lit by an inner light. There was a half smile on her lips.

She’d come with him, to look after her books. He felt comforted by her presence. He imagined that she was wrapping her arms around him, holding him and whispering in his ear.

Like a proper mother.

Not like that lot out there, the sicko mothers. And not like his own mother. She’d never been any use to him.

The Grey Lady was a ghost mother. The mother of all the writers of the books he’d saved. She would protect him.

As long as he protected the books.

75

Ed’s group was surrounded on three sides now, with the Thames at their backs and the bridge to their right. They’d been forced off the road and on to the walkway that bordered the river. Ed was slashing and hacking at the enemy but there was nowhere for either side to go. They would have to fight till the last man standing. And it looked like the sickos were going to win. They were starting to get in among the kids, biting and scratching, and the kids were exhausted. He doubted they could hold out much longer. It was only a matter of time before they were overrun by the army of disease-ridden adults.

What was the point? What was the point of killing any more of them? Why carry on fighting? He’d done his duty. He’d saved the others and honoured the memory of his fallen friends. He’d shown David he wasn’t a quitter. He’d stood his ground like a hero. And now he was going to die a hero’s death, massacred by a much bigger force.

What was the point?

But somehow his rifle kept on moving, stabbing, battering, rising and falling, rising and falling, and somehow his legs kept from buckling. He had no idea what reserves of energy he was running on; he’d gone beyond tiredness. He was little better than a machine.

The sickos seemed far, far away and nothing mattered to him any more. He was shutting down his conscious mind and letting his body fight on without him.

And then he heard gunshots. Shouting. And a shudder passed through the ranks of the diseased.

‘Someone’s attacking them from the rear,’ Kyle shouted. ‘Come on! Let’s show them who’s boss!’

Ed came back alive, turned to his exhausted friends.

‘Don’t give up!’ he bellowed, tears in his eyes. ‘There’s help coming!’

He sensed a fresh fight along the line. In front of them the sickos were falling away, turning to the side, trying to get clear, trapped between Ed’s group and whoever was pressing them from behind.

A mob of sickos broke and stumbled away and now Ed could see …

It was Jordan Hordern and his crew from the museum. Well armed, well drilled and fresh. They moved mercilessly through the fleeing sickos. Chopping down anyone that got in their path.

At their head was Jordan himself, shouting orders, his sword flashing in his hand.

And there was DogNut, fighting just as hard with his katana.

Ed’s group gave a cheer and laid into the sickos that remained with savage fury. The two groups fought their way towards each other until at last they linked up.

Jordan saluted Ed.

‘What happened?’ Ed panted, ready to drop.

‘Couldn’t stay,’ was all Jordan replied. ‘What about you?’

‘We got separated from the others,’ Ed explained, looking towards the bridge. ‘We have to get over there.’

‘No chance,’ said Jordan flatly. ‘You lot are finished and there’s hundreds of the bastards between here and the bridge. Plus, the fire’s just about on us. We managed to stay a few metres ahead is all.’

‘Then what?’ said Ed, feeling his new hope slipping away.

‘There,’ said Jordan, nodding.

A small pier jutted out into the river, and a metal walkway ran down from it on to a mooring platform to which four sightseeing boats were tethered.

‘We could get across on one of those,’ said Jordan.

‘You reckon?’

‘Do we have any choice?’

‘Fall back!’ Ed bawled. ‘Get on to that pier!’

They fought their way to the café that stood at the end of the pier and then swarmed past it and out along the walkway.

The surface of the Thames was alive with reflected light. Vivid reds and oranges, golds and yellows made ever-changing patterns on the normally black water. Bits of rubbish and wreckage and the bodies of people and animals flowed past serenely on the current.

The kids kept moving, down the walkway and on to the platform from where they scrambled on to the nearest boat, a blue and white cruiser, with an enclosed lower deck and an open-sided upper deck.

Jordan made his way to the wheelhouse that stood up at the front. DogNut and one of his friends went round throwing off the mooring ropes. Ed helped the other kids on board and checked that everyone was all right. As well as Jordan’s crew there were about twenty others who’d fought alongside them. The casualties from his own gang weren’t as bad as Ed had feared. Three of Matt’s acolytes hadn’t made it, the others were knocked about, but, though bruised, they had no serious cuts. Ed himself was painted with gore from head to foot – as far as he could tell, though, none of it was his.

Last to board were Courtney and Aleisha. Aleisha’s arm was soaked with blood and she was in a lot of pain. Her dark skin looked grey and she looked smaller than ever, as if she had shrunk in on herself.

‘Take her below,’ said Ed. ‘Sit her down and stay with her. When we get to the other side we’ll catch up with the lorry and get some antiseptic and bandages and stuff.’

‘The lorry,’ said Aleisha, perking up for a moment. ‘Did they make it?’

Ed smiled. ‘They made it.’

‘Woo-hoo.’ Aleisha tried to shout it, but didn’t have the strength.

‘And we’re going to make it too,’ said Ed defiantly. ‘We’ll get your arm sorted out … Actually …’

Ed grabbed Kyle who was going past with his fork.

‘Kyle,’ he said. ‘There must be a first-aid kit somewhere on board. See if you can find it and sort these two out.’

‘Aye, aye, skipper!’ Kyle saluted and blundered off along the rocking deck.

The sickos didn’t try to get on to the boat and the kids on the boat laughed and jeered at them as DogNut came running over to Ed.

‘There’s only one rope left,’ he said. ‘Shall I let her go?’

Ed took a last look back. Lambeth Palace was now completely engulfed in flames that were spreading to some of the trees along the riverside. The noise was deafening and the whole sky to the south looked like something out of a war film.

The sickos were starting to cross Lambeth Bridge. The lorry was somewhere on the north side, with all their food, water, bedding, extra weapons, everything they needed to survive. If Ed and the others couldn’t get to it, if they couldn’t get over in time and Justin couldn’t hang on for them …

Then they’d have to start over again, with nothing.

‘What are you waiting for?’ he said. ‘Let’s go!’

DogNut cast off and they drifted out into the Thames. The boat started to turn slowly in the water. The Thames was tidal, which meant that the water could be pushed back up from the sea when the tide was high. Ed reckoned it must be high now because the flow wasn’t too fast. They would still be pulled downstream on the current, though, and would have to try to somehow steer across.

Ed hadn’t thought about that. He hoped Jordan knew what he was doing. All he wanted was to collapse on to one of the benches and sleep.

Not yet.

He had to check that somebody was in control of the boat.

He went to the front and climbed the steps to the wheelhouse.

There was broken glass on the floor where the window had been smashed. Jordan was at the wheel; with him were Matt and Archie Bishop. As Ed came in, the three of them were arguing about something.

‘Nothing will work without any power,’ Archie Bishop was saying.

‘It’s doing something,’ said Jordan, ‘the wheel’s turning.’

‘Let me do that,’ said Matt, stepping forward, his face beaming with eager excitement.

‘Why you?’ Ed asked. ‘Do you know about boats or something?’

‘This was all meant to be,’ said Matt.

Ed sighed. ‘What are you on about now?’ he asked. ‘This isn’t the time for your religious crap.’

Matt turned his beam on Ed.

‘No, Ed, don’t you see?’ he said. ‘We’re being sent downriver to the temple.’

‘Please don’t start up about St Paul’s again, Matt.’

‘Listen to me!’ Matt shouted, jabbing a grubby finger at the scab on his forehead and making it bleed. ‘I have the mark of the Lamb on me. I know the truth!’

‘We’re not going downriver, Matt,’ said Ed. ‘We just need to get across to the other side to meet up with the others.’

‘No. It was not meant to be like that. We’re supposed to go to the temple of the Lamb. This boat was given to us.’

‘He’s right,’ said Archie Bishop. ‘It’s all written in the papers. The fire, the flood, the battle, the river of blood.’

‘What river of blood?’

‘Look at it!’

Ed gazed out at the Thames, washed with scarlet.

‘The third angel poured out his bowl on the rivers and springs of water, and they became blood,’ said Matt, his voice low and urgent. ‘Then I heard the angel in charge of the waters say: “You are just in these judgments, you who are and who were, and you have given them blood to drink as they deserve” …’

‘You’re not helping, Matt,’ said Ed, weariness eating away at his last few scraps of patience.

‘We’re crossing to the promised place,’ said Matt.

‘Bollocks,’ Ed snapped. ‘We just need to get to the other side. Once we’re there if you want to bugger off down to St Paul’s with your silly flag and your silly bits of burnt paper, feel free, but we’re not coming with you. OK?’

‘We’d have to cross the whole of London, though,’ Matt protested. ‘This boat can take us straight there.’

‘We might not have much choice,’ said Jordan. ‘The river’s taking us that way.’

‘Just go across diagonally,’ said Ed. ‘We need to be near the lorry.’

‘I’m trying. Believe me, I’m trying.’

‘The river is taking us where we are supposed to go,’ said Matt.

‘No way,’ said Ed.

‘My way!’ Matt yelled, and he threw himself at Jordan.

76

Matt tried to wrestle the wheel out of Jordan’s grasp, puffing and panting with the effort.

‘What are you doing?’ Jordan snapped, and batted Matt away. The backhander didn’t look like much – Jordan hardly seemed to move – but Matt flew across the wheelhouse and crashed into the door with a grunt. It didn’t stop him, though. Instantly he and Archie came back at Jordan and grabbed hold of an arm each.

‘Help me, Ed,’ Matt gasped.

‘Are you nuts?’ said Ed, not sure whether to laugh or get angry. He got past the three struggling boys and took the wheel. It was hard to tell which way he should turn it; the boat was drifting out of control in the current, spinning slowly.

Jordan threw Matt and Archie off, sending them sprawling on to the floor. Now Matt threw his arms round Jordan’s legs and Archie got up and tried to push him over. Jordan kept his balance and knocked Archie down before kicking Matt away.

Whichever direction Ed spun the wheel it didn’t seem to be having any effect on the boat. He soon had no idea which way they were facing and felt a rising sense of panic.

Then he heard Jordan say, ‘Is that loaded?’ And he turned to see Matt waving an old British Army Browning revolver.

Matt nodded, his face twisted by a wild excitement. It was clear that Jordan didn’t know whether to believe him. Did Matt even know how to fire it?

But it would be stupid to risk testing him.

Jordan looked at Ed.

‘Do something.’

‘I’m not responsible for him,’ said Ed.

‘He’s one of yours.’

Ed gave a nervous laugh. ‘He doesn’t follow me. He follows the Lamb.’

‘Will he shoot?’

‘He’s crazy enough.’

Now Matt spoke. ‘Get the wheel, Archie,’ he said. ‘Steer us downriver to St Paul’s.’

Archie was shaking. His nose was bleeding and one eye was bruised. He pushed Ed out of the way, took hold of the wheel and tried to take control of the boat.

‘I can’t do it, Matt. I don’t know how.’

‘Let the Lamb guide you!’

‘Use the Force, Luke,’ Ed scoffed, and Matt glowered at him.

‘I can’t do it,’ Archie shouted, his voice high and wobbly.

‘Yes you can!’

77

On the lower deck Aleisha was shaking and holding her arm tight to her belly. She was sitting on one of the benches with her back against the windows. Kyle had found a first-aid kit and he and Courtney had disinfected the wound and bandaged it. It had looked bad, ragged and torn by Frédérique’s teeth. Aleisha was trying to stay cheerful, but was slipping into shock, shivering, her teeth clattering, her eyes rolling up in her head.

Courtney put her arm round her.

‘We’re all right now, babe,’ she said, and Aleisha forced her grey lips into a smile.

‘Yeah.’

Kyle looked out of the windows into the night.

‘I’m going to see what’s up,’ he said. ‘We’re all over the place. Doesn’t feel like no one’s driving this thing.’

He walked off but as he got to the exit there was a horrible crunch and the boat lurched to the side. Everyone was thrown to the floor and Courtney was aware of a massive stone bulk passing the windows.

‘We’ve hit something!’ she shrieked.

The windows all down the side where Aleisha had been sitting were cracked. Two of them had smashed completely, letting in smoke and the rushing, roaring, gurgling din of the river. There was also a screeching, scraping noise and the sound of splintering wood and breaking glass.

Courtney looked for her friend. Aleisha had fallen to the floor and hit her head on the table on the way down. She was still just conscious, but dazed. Courtney took a step towards her as the boat gave another sudden lurch and tilted over at a crazy angle. Kyle grabbed Courtney to stop her falling. Aleisha rolled against the side.

‘Hold on, Aleisha!’ Courtney tried to break free from where Kyle was holding her steady, and the next moment, with a deafening crack, the boat split completely open. A gush of water burst through, reaching in like a giant black hand, and closed round Aleisha. And then it withdrew, sucked out as the boat tilted back the other way.

‘Aleisha!’ Courtney screamed, but her friend was gone.

‘You idiot, Matt,’ Ed shouted, picking himself up from where he’d been thrown to the floor by the force of the collision. ‘That was Westminster Bridge.’

‘We’re sinking,’ said Archie, clinging on to the wheel to keep from falling over.

‘It’s worse than that,’ said Jordan, looking out of the windows. ‘We’re breaking up. We need to find the lifeboats.’

‘Out there, look!’ Archie nodded through the window of the wheelhouse. There was a short deck in front of them with two dinghies tethered to it.

‘We’ll never all fit on them,’ said Ed. ‘There must be at least thirty of us.’

‘Look for more,’ said Jordan, struggling over to the door. ‘I’ll get these two sorted.’

Matt was staring out at the flames that raged over the south side of the river, his face lit with writhing yellows and scarlets.

‘The third angel sounded his trumpet,’ he said quietly. ‘And a great star, blazing like a torch, fell from the sky on a third of the rivers and on the springs of water – the name of the star is Wormwood. A third of the waters turned bitter, and many people died from the waters that had become bitter.’