The Fallen (13 page)

‘I asked them to. They were too wild, though, apparently, too sick. It was too dangerous.’

‘Tell you what then,’ said Einstein. ‘We’ll bring you some back from our trip. OK?’

‘Don’t be funny, Einstein.’

‘I’m not being funny. I’ll pick you out some nice ripe ones and ship them back here. That way it’ll be a proper expedition. Like capturing chimpanzees in the wild.’

‘Einstein, you can’t treat this as a big joke. It’s going to
be dangerous. You haven’t left the museum in months. You missed what happened the other night when they broke in. And it’s not just you. The other kids who are going with you – they could get hurt.’

‘Isn’t that what we want?’

‘What?’

Einstein leant closer to Justin, his breath warm on his face.

‘For our experiments. How are we ever going to know if the disease can be passed on from adults to children if one of us doesn’t get bitten?’

‘Christ’s sake, Einstein. You can’t want someone to be bitten!’

‘That’s exactly what I want. We could develop an antidote. Using infected blood. But for that we need a kid who’s survived a bite. That’s the thing we need most right now.’

‘You’re nuts, you know that? They don’t just bite you, they bloody well eat you.’

‘I may be nuts, but I’m not stupid, Justin. I know what sickos can do. But we’ve got the mighty morons to protect us now, haven’t we! So, if you will excuse me, we need to get a move on.’

‘Einstein …’ Justin called out lamely after him.

‘Everything’s going to be all right!’ Einstein shouted back without turning round.

20

Paul was leaning over the edge of one of the water-storage tanks in the roof of the museum. He could see himself and a patch of the ceiling reflected in the water’s glassy surface. He looked bad. Too thin. Eyes red. Skin yellow. Lips cracked and dry.

He needed to look after himself better.

He’d climbed down from the roof in the night and taken a chicken from one of the coops. Had eaten it raw back in his den, leaving feathers and gizzards and crap everywhere. It had taken the edge off his hunger, but he still had a raging thirst. And the thirst was worse than the hunger. If he didn’t keep drinking he would quickly start to feel faint and weak. Confused. He’d collected some old bottles, a discarded kettle. Was going to fill them all up and keep them close.

He wriggled further over the edge of the tank and leant down as far as he dared. The tank was huge and he didn’t want to fall in. He got into a position from where he could reach down and scoop water up to his mouth with one hand, holding on to the tank with the other. As he reached out, his fingers broke the reflection and sent it shimmering off in all directions, the water no longer glassy but dancing, crazed. He brought his hand back up to his mouth, lapped water from his palm. It was cool, clean. Tasted of nothing.

It hurt to swallow. His throat felt like there were razor blades embedded in it. His whole head was bunged up and burning. Thick mucus filled his nose and ears and he was forever coughing up sticky green gobbets streaked with red.

The edge of the tank hurt where it cut into his belly. His guts were rumbling, churning. He dipped his hand in again, managed to scoop more water up this time. He drank it down greedily then belched and nearly threw up. That wouldn’t do. He didn’t want to poison his water supply. He held the puke down and splashed up more water, sucking it from his dirty fingers. He tried not to think about how sick he felt, how much his stomach hurt, tried to lose himself in the mechanical process of getting water to his mouth, his hand rising and falling like a machine. At last he had drunk enough and stopped, panting, his eyes closed. Listening to the water as it slopped about in the tank, the sounds echoing off the metal sides.

When he opened his eyes the world was settling down, the reflections slowing their mad dance, coming together again. He watched the hypnotic display. Gradually everything calmed and grew still and finally he could see into the dark depths of the tank.

He realized with a shock that there was something down there. Moving. Alive. A creature, rising slowly from the bottom, looming up at him. As he stared, he began to make out its shape.

Black flesh and grey bones, broken wings and a gaping chest, greasy feathers …

He wanted to be sick again.

It was Boney-M, swimming about down there, an oily trail following him through the water, spreading out like the filthy discharge from a ship’s engine.

Paul clamped a hand to his mouth. He mustn’t throw up. But the thought of drinking water polluted by this filthy beast made his stomach flip. Boney’s beak opened like a shark’s mouth and came up out of the water. It made a choking sound then closed with a clack.

One beady eye stared at him. The leathery eyelids closed slowly over it and then slid open.

‘You shouldn’t swim in my drinking water,’ said Paul.

‘You what? Who are you to tell me what I should and shouldn’t do, puke boy? I can do what I sodding well like, you little sickie-puke-boy.’

‘You’ll poison me.’

‘Don’t make me laugh. You’re already poisoned, you moron. Didn’t your mother tell you?’

‘I’m not poisoned. I’m just not feeling very well.’

‘
I’m not poisoned. I’m just not feeling very well …
Listen to you. What a whiner. You know nothing, pus-for-brains. Look at you, drifting around up here like a wet fart. Why aren’t you down there, sorting them out? The little bastards. You promised me you were going to do something about them.’

‘I can’t. Not yet. I don’t feel strong enough.’

‘Feeble excuse from a feeble specimen.’

‘There’s too many of them. More came. Didn’t you know? I don’t know where they’re from. There’s too many of them now. And they can fight. They’re strong. I’ve seen them. I watched them, down in the lower level, killing sickos. What can I do?’

‘Do what you always do, feeble-fairy-sicko-puking-chunks-and-chunder,’ shrieked the horrible, broken bird thing. ‘Nothing! You do NOTHING. You just watch and wait and watch and wait. Why don’t you go and look and
see what they’re up to? Huh? Move your fat arse. Do it, do it, do it …’

Paul made his way out on to the roof and scuttled across it to the front of the museum, shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun.

Even before he got to the edge he could hear them, children talking, laughing, shouting, their feet scraping on the ground. And as he reached the low wall that ran round the building he shook with silent laughter.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘Look! They’re going! The new ones are leaving.’

Twenty-four children were trooping out through the gates and turning right on to Cromwell Road, heading west.

‘What did I tell you?’ said Boney-M. ‘Now’s your chance.’

21

The expedition moved slowly. They were wheeling two large trolleys that had once been used for shifting things around the museum. Their small, sturdy wheels were perfect for indoor use and for carrying heavy objects, but they rattled and bumped and had a tendency to get stuck on any uneven surfaces.

Ollie could see that the trolleys were going to be trouble. He was already nervous and the trolleys just made him more so. For the hundredth time he counted the heavy steel pellets he used as slingshot, transferring them from one leather pouch on his belt to another. Thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five … That should do it.

He really wasn’t sure how he felt about leaving the museum so soon and putting himself back into the mouth of danger. Since leaving Holloway they’d been on a roller-coaster. He had to admit, though, that the most dangerous part of their journey had been through north London. It was noticeably quieter here in the centre of town, and the quality of the grown-ups was definitely inferior. They were weak and pathetic, and, luckily, pretty thin on the ground. Didn’t stop him being scared, though. Something was nagging away at him, a dark thought; it had dug into his brain like a tick, its claws holding tight, and it infected him
with a constant low-level anxiety. It made his heart beat faster every now and then for no apparent reason, and he was sleeping badly.

Even now, with the sun on his back, he felt kind of cold, and the day seemed dark. He knew what it was, the bad thought. It wasn’t a threat from outside. It was from inside.

He made a decision.

He would go and talk to the geeky boy in the tweed coat. Einstein.

Ollie had taken his usual place at the rear of the group, regularly checking behind for any grown-ups. He’d chosen his three best shots to make up his team. He didn’t have to worry about them, they knew the drill. He told them to keep their eyes open and sped up, working his way through the main group to where Einstein was strolling along with the other kids from the museum. Ollie spotted a younger girl who looked familiar. She was wearing what looked like old-fashioned monks’ robes. The kids at the Natural History Museum all dressed weirdly, mostly in clothes they’d looted from the clothing and fashion galleries of the Victoria and Albert Museum next door. And this girl looked like she was auditioning for some
Lord of the Rings
style fantasy film.

‘Why do I recognize you?’ he said, drawing level with her.

The girl looked shyly down at the ground and mumbled something.

‘Say again.’

‘You saved me the other night.’

Now Ollie noticed that she was carrying a large leather notebook under her arm.

‘You’re the World Book Day kid.’ What was her name? Something weird. Celery?

‘Yes.’

‘How you doing? You recovered all right?’

‘I wasn’t hurt. You shot that sicko just in time. You’re a very good shot.’

‘I do my best. So what’s the book for? You got maps in there or something?’

‘No. I’m going to make an accurate record of everything that happens.’

‘Yeah? That really necessary?’

‘Of course it is.’ The girl sounded insulted. ‘It’s for the Chronicles of Survival.’

‘Fair enough. I’ll take your word for it. What’s your name again?’

‘Lettis. The same as lettuce, but it’s spelled different.’

‘Lettis. Right.’ Ollie had already offended her once by questioning her book so he figured he’d better bite his tongue and not say anything about her name.

‘Hi, Lettis. My name’s Ollie.’

‘I know. I’ve got it written down. I’ve already written down
all
your names. I wrote yours down first. It’s the most important.’

‘I dunno about that.’

‘When I heard you were going on the expedition I volunteered,’ said Lettis. ‘Even though I was scared.’

‘I’m honoured,’ said Ollie. ‘Though I’d have thought we’d be taking as many fighters as we could, rather than, like, writers.’

‘The pen is mightier than the sword,’ said Einstein, slightly sarcastically.

‘Tell that to a hungry father,’ said Ollie.

‘We do need to keep an accurate record of what’s happening, though,’ said Einstein. ‘You never know what’s going
to be important. The boy who runs the library, Chris Marker, is making sure he keeps a proper history. When we’re older it’ll be a vital record.’

‘If we ever
make it
that far,’ said Ollie.

‘Oh, I’m intending to grow old,’ said Einstein.

Ollie moved closer to him. ‘Can I ask you something, yeah?’ he said. ‘In private.’

Einstein looked him up and down and then moved slightly apart from his group. ‘I suppose so.’

‘You’re like a what?’ said Ollie. ‘A scientist? Is that what you’d call yourself?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘And, apparently, you’re, like, looking into what caused the disease; that’s what Akkie told me anyway. You’re trying to find out how it works, that kind of thing.’

‘That kind of thing, yes,’ said Einstein. ‘As well as we can. I was outstanding at science at school. Did my GCSEs early. I was already studying A-level biology and chemistry. But I’m still just a teenage boy. So it’s fairly basic stuff, quite limited really. Are you any good at science?’

‘Not bad,’ said Ollie. ‘I’d certainly like to help out when we get back.’

‘You’re not
all
special needs then?’

‘We’ve had to do what we can to get by,’ said Ollie, ignoring Einstein’s dig. ‘Don’t judge by appearances.’