The Fear (45 page)

The father with the weapon who he had knocked over.

He’d scrambled across the floor and got to his feet on the other side of the room. Now he was holding back in the darkness, blocking the doorway.

Shadowman was fighting for breath, dripping with sweat and blood, and worse. There were countless small wounds all over his exposed skin, but as far as he could tell none of them was life threatening. His ribs burned, his throat was horribly dry, his legs shaking, his heart thumping, but he was still upright.

And so far he was winning.

He knew he had to keep going while he was ahead. Not let up.

He raised his knife and winced. His whole arm ached and he felt like he had wrenched his shoulder.

Ignore it.

Fight through the pain.

The last stranger stepped into the light.

With a jolt Shadowman realized he recognized him.

It was the One-Armed Bandit. He was naked from the waist up, the stump of his missing arm wagging. He was holding a sharp stone in his remaining hand. The sort of thing a Neanderthal might have used as a tool.

Heavy and dangerous-looking, but nothing compared to Shadowman’s knife. If he held his nerve, this would soon be over.

The Bandit came closer. His gums were massively swollen, as if he was holding two sausages under his lips. The tiny yellow stubs of his teeth looked like little lumps of sweetcorn. He appeared to be smiling, but Shadowman knew that it was just the way his lips were being forced back by his puffed-up gums.

He swung the stone through the air as he moved closer and closer to Shadowman, his breath bubbling in his throat.

Shadowman charged. And it all went wrong. He hadn’t seen the one whose tendons he’d cut lying on the floor in front of him. The father flung his arms round his legs and brought him down. Shadowman swore for the first time and stabbed the father in the chest. He instantly knew that this was a mistake as the blade caught in his ribs. And, as Shadowman tried to tug it out, the One-Armed Bandit fell on him.

To make it worse, the father he had stabbed wasn’t dead. He was writhing and gurgling and feebly trying to pull the knife out. Shadowman was sandwiched between him and the Bandit, who was battering him with the stone again. He was too close to do much damage, however, and Shadowman was able to twist round and punch him in the face, splattering his nose and cutting his top lip open. The Bandit groaned, rolled fully on top of him and put his mouth to Shadowman’s neck. Luckily his teeth were so deeply embedded in his inflamed gums he couldn’t properly bite. The feel of his wet, blubbery lips was revolting and Shadowman thought he might be sick.

He fought it and kept his focus. The first thing was to stop the stabbed father from straining against him. Shadowman took hold of the Bandit’s wrist and used his hand to hammer the knife in deeper. The stone connected with the knife handle and drove it down. One, two, three. At last the father fell still and the Bandit dropped the stone. Then Shadowman did something dumb.

He let go of the Bandit’s wrist.

The hammer blows must have loosened the knife and broken some of the father’s ribs as well, because now the Bandit’s fingers closed round the handle. Before Shadowman knew what was happening the Bandit had slid the knife free and was trying to stab him. Shadowman managed to react just in time, grabbing the Bandit’s hand and holding the knife in the air above him.

The pain that pulsed through his tensed muscles was excruciating. His arms shook with the effort. He knew he mustn’t let go. The point of the blade was aimed straight at his left eye. It hovered there, only centimetres away, dripping blood on to him. He blinked some away and swallowed hard.

The Bandit’s sour breath felt hot on his skin and his horrible, leering face pressed closer.

As Shadowman lay there, locked in this lethal embrace, the stranger’s weight crushing him, the fire in the supermarket must have flared up, because, for a few precious seconds, the room was brightly lit. Out of the corner of his eye Shadowman spotted the machete lying half a metre away on the carpet.

The only problem was it would mean freeing one hand to reach for it and he wasn’t sure he was strong enough to hold the Bandit’s knife off with just the other one.

He would have to risk it, though, as the knife was creeping ever closer to his eye.

Do it now.

Do it quickly.

There was no choice.

He barked out a harsh swear-word and in one swift movement he groped for the machete, picked it up and swung it.

The next moment he was still holding the hand that held the knife, but all the weight had gone from it. He had sliced clean through the Bandit’s arm, which flopped down harmlessly, spurting blood.

The full, unsupported weight of the Bandit slumped on to Shadowman, suffocating him. He couldn’t use the machete again; the two of them were too tightly entwined. Instead he kept hold of the severed hand, turned it and stabbed the knife into the side of the Bandit’s neck.

‘That was for Tom and Kate,’ he said, tearing the blade through tendons and arteries. ‘And the boy over the road … And for me …’

It was taking him an awfully long time to die.

His name was Jamie. He was thirteen. Paul had been pretty friendly with him once. Then Jamie had found a new gang to hang out with. They’d probably been laughing at Paul behind his back. Not any more.

Jamie had been checking the lower levels at the museum by himself when he’d come across Paul. He should never have been by himself. If Robbie hadn’t been recovering from his attack, he would have made sure the patrols were properly organized. As it was, it just made Paul’s job easier. He’d smiled at Jamie and before he knew what was happening Paul had put his hands round his neck and started to squeeze.

He’d never realized before how strong he was. Nothing could shift his fingers from Jamie’s throat. No matter how hard Jamie struggled. He squeezed as hard as he could. How long did it take for someone to die?

Jamie was still thrashing about now over a minute later. Paul reckoned he must be doing it wrong and shifted the position of his thumbs. He felt a spasm pass through the boy, and then at last he was still.

Paul eased him to the floor and then dragged him over to the door. He stopped to get his breath, fumbling for the keys in his pocket. It was hot down here. It always was. Even in winter it was a couple of degrees warmer than upstairs.

And it smelt.

It was them. The sickos that lived down here. Lurking in the abandoned rooms underneath the museum. For the most part the kids just ignored them, safe in the knowledge that the diseased, mushy-brained grown-ups could never open the locked doors.

Not the sickos, no.

But he could.

The lamp that Jamie had been carrying had blown out when he’d dropped it. Paul picked it up and relit it. He put it on the floor close to the door and pushed the key into the lock. He turned it. This was the last door. Once he’d done this he would go up to the car park and let the three sickos off the lorry. And after that he could sit back and watch the fun.

He pulled the door open. There was a knot of sickos pressed up against it on the other side. Crushed together in a tight huddle. One stared at him, but the two nearest ones looked blind. They were thin as skeletons and slow moving. Their skin was pale, hardly blemished by sickness, their eyes sunk deep in dark sockets. Paul noticed a skittering movement among them and saw that rats were crawling all over them. One fat greasy specimen hung off a mother’s ear, its teeth gripping the lobe. She didn’t seem to notice. Another sat up, straight-backed, on the shoulder of a young father, sniffing the warm air. And then it went back to where it had been gnawing a hole in the father’s skin.

One rat jumped down and trotted off, a lump of unidentifiable grey flesh in its mouth.

The sickos started to stir. Those that were able to crawled towards him; others simply stretched out their hands; one or two appeared to be dead. One came close and sniffed him, then moved on. Paul spat on him and then dragged Jamie’s body closer.

‘Here,’ he said. ‘It’s supper time. Eat your fill. Get your strength up. You’ve work to do. There’s more like this up there. A whole building full of them.’

The rest of the sickos started to move, breaking away from the huddle, ignoring Paul and slithering towards Jamie’s body. One put his hands on him, feeling with blind fingers over his face, and as he did so Jamie’s eyes fluttered open.

Even after all that he still wasn’t dead.

Never mind. He soon would be.

He looked at Paul with a helpless expression. Tried to say something. A mother put her fingers in his mouth.

Paul leant over him. ‘I want to show you something, Jamie,’ he said. ‘My little secret.’

He held on to the top of his roll-neck jumper and pulled it down, then lifted the lamp to illuminate his exposed skin.

There was a horrific scar below his right ear. It hadn’t healed properly. Pus oozed from a sticky hole. The skin was ragged and lumpy around it. It was a mess, but you could still tell what had caused it. The scar was in the unmistakable shape of two sets of teeth.

Paul laughed. ‘That’s what they do to you,’ he said. ‘The grown-ups. That’s what my one on the lorry did, before I muzzled him. That’s what they’ll do to you.’

He straightened the neck of his jumper and stood up. Jamie’s eyes pleaded with him.

Paul turned and started to walk away along the corridor.

It was time to let the night come down.

Shadowman had gone round the room in the flat making sure the strangers were all dead, methodically cutting the throats of any who showed signs of life. And then a noise had drawn him to the window.

St George was doing a sort of war dance on top of a car. He was stamping up and down, hammering out a rhythm with his feet, lit by the lurid reds and yellows of the dancing flames from the burning supermarket.

His army was transfixed, watching him with upturned faces. He was their god. One by one they’d joined in with him, stamping, beating their fists in the air, and now they were systematically wrecking every car on the street in an orgy of senseless violence.

Shadowman was shaking uncontrollably. His head felt light. Nausea rose in his gullet and he fought the urge to pass out. He was sopping with sweat and blood and worse. There were tears dripping off his chin. He was crying, biting his tongue to keep from howling. Finally his knees buckled and he collapsed on to the bed, unable to stand any longer. He curled up into a foetus, hugging his knees. Around him on the floor lay six dead bodies.

He realized that he had been absolutely terrified. Scared beyond all understanding. He had been in a place he never wanted to go again. They had done that to him, St George and his bloody army. And they were going to do it to others. They were going to spread their terror wherever they went.

He had killed one of St George’s lieutenants. And he wasn’t going to let it end there. He would overcome his terror. He would kill the rest of them, when he could, one by one – Man U, Spike, Bluetooth – he’d find a way. A way to punish them for what they’d done to his friends.

And when he got the chance he would kill St George.

And then he would go to the palace and look for Jester and kill him too. Snuff him out for his betrayal. That was what would keep him going. That was what would get him up off this gore-spattered bed. He would ignore his wounds, his hunger and his thirst. Revenge would drive him on.

He forced himself back to the window. The army was starting to march off. He had to follow them. That was his role now.

He would do it.

Even though they scared him to death.

He packed up his weapons. Took a drink of water from his canteen.

He was ready.

The army had a name now. He’d known it all along.

Known what to call them.

The Fear.

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First published 2011

Copyright © Charlie Higson, 2011

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ISBN: 978-0-141-33883-5