The Dead

‘Why are you wearing them?’ he asked.

Greg put his hand to his face.

‘The sun was too bright,’ he said, blinking. ‘I needed to put me dark glasses on.’

Jack was gripped by a cold, hard fury. ‘You’re sick,’ he said accusingly. ‘You’ve got the disease. You’re just like all the rest.’

‘I ain’t sick. I’m fine.’

‘Look at yourself, Greg. Look in the mirror. You’ve got the disease.’ Now Jack pointed to Liam’s lifeless body. He was shaking with rage, his finger waving. He knew Greg was dangerous. He knew he should be careful, be clever like Ed, but he couldn’t stop himself.

‘Did you do this?’ he asked. ‘To Liam? Did you?’

‘I was protecting him,’ Greg croaked. ‘So nobody can ever hurt him. If I ain’t around to look after him what was he go

‘Greg …’

‘Shut up! Sit down and shut up. I said I was going to get us all to Islington and I will. I’m taking Liam home.’

He aimed his shotgun at Jack, who backed into a seat, shaking worse than ever.

‘That’s better,’ said Greg, showing both barrels to everyone on the bus. ‘Now, all of you, stay where you are, sitting down. Don’t talk to the driver when the bus is in motion, or the driver will shoot you. Got that?’

Greg returned to his seat and started the engine. A spray of rain rattled down the side of the coach, which rocked as a blast of wind rolled over it. Jack realized with dismay that Greg would virtually be driving blind.

As the coach eased forward Ed nipped up the aisle and tucked in next to Jack.

‘He’s lost it,’ he said quietly.

‘Big time.’

‘What are we going to do?’ Ed asked.

‘Just sit tight and wait for our moment. He’s not go

‘He killed Liam?’

‘Looks like it. And he’ll probably kill the rest of us if we don’t stop him somehow.’

Greg moved the bus up through the gears, so that they were soon thundering along through the cluttered streets of south London. Too fast. Greg was completely out of control.

There was a thump and a grinding crunch as they hit something on one side, but Greg just speeded up. Someone screamed, and Zohra started wailing. They were all being thrown about in their seats. Jack pressed his face to the side window and tried to get his bearings.

‘Where’s he taking us?’ Ed asked. ‘Can you tell?’

‘Not sure. We’re somewhere near London Bridge, I think. But I reckon we’re heading south, away from the river. It’s so hard to tell around here. None of the roads go in a straight line.’

There was another terrific bang and the coach lurched sideways across the road. Greg wrestled with the wheel.

‘This is crazy,’ Jack said, standing up and climbing over Ed.

‘Jack, no …’

Jack fought his way to the front, rocking from side to side, stumbling into the seats.

‘Stop the bus!’ he yelled. By way of a reply Greg flung an arm back and fired off a round from his gun. It went wild, peppering the ceiling with shot, but Jack threw himself to the ground and lay pressed against the carpeted floor.

‘Sit down!’ Greg yelled, still waving the gun around.

Jack stayed there, hoping that Greg might at least slow down. It was clear, though, that nothing short of a major accident was going to stop him.

Jack made a decision.

If the bus hit something head on, he’d be thrown forward head first along the aisle like a torpedo.

He started to crawl. Inch by inch along the floor. Hoping that Greg wouldn’t notice him in the big convex mirror that gave the driver a view of the entire bus interior. He passed Liam’s body, tried not to think about what Greg had done to him, carried on.

The bus went way too fast over an obstacle, a speed bump maybe, and Jack was flipped up into the air and landed with a thud. He heard something scraping all the way along the underside. Still he crept forward, his eyes fixed on the shotgun that Greg was waving blindly in the air.

Greg couldn’t drive properly like this, and neither could he aim properly. Sooner rather than later either they were going to crash or Greg was going to loose off a shot that would hit one of the kids.

Jack had to keep going.

At last he reached the front. Greg was close enough to touch. Jack picked his moment and then forced himself up from the floor. He shunted Greg’s gun arm out of the way and grabbed his wrist. There was a bang as Greg squeezed the trigger. Shot raked the windscreen and punched a hole in the door.

But that was it. The gun only held two shells at a time. If Greg wanted to shoot again, he would have to reload first and Jack wasn’t going to give him the chance. He wrenched the weapon out of Greg’s grasp and butted the stock into the side of his head. Green snot exploded from Greg’s nose and he fell away from Jack as the coach slewed across the road, hurling Jack down the steps. For a few seconds the coach ploughed on, sideways, filling the street from pavement to pavement, its tyres screaming. Then there came a final almighty smash as it hit some parked cars and they at last stopped moving.

From his position sprawled in the stairwell Jack could see smoke and steam rising outside.

Ed unbuckled his belt, ran along the aisle and pulled Jack up out of the stairwell and on to his feet.

‘Well done!’ He gri

But Greg wasn’t finished. With a roar, he surged out of his seat and punched Ed out of the way with a meaty forearm, trying to get to Jack.

Jack aimed a wild kick at Greg; it got him in the knee. Greg yelled and swung back at him, a vicious right hook that, if it had co

Greg went into a low crouch, arms outstretched, his red eyes burning with hatred and rage. There was blood drooling from his mouth – whether from Jack’s blow to his head or from internal bleeding deeper in his guts, it was impossible to tell. He coughed, spraying blood and mucus over the kids at the front of the coach who were up out of their seats and retreating from him in a pack like startled ducklings.

Greg belched, causing a big brown bubble to form between his lips. It burst, filling the coach with a foul stench. He wiped his mouth and then spat a gobbet of rubbery mucus against a window, where it slowly crawled down like a fat yellow slug.

‘If Liam ain’t go

28

Brooke was lying in a confusion of spilt and scattered boxes at the back of the bus, half buried beneath packets of crisps and biscuits. A can of beans had hit her in the back of the head and for a moment she wasn’t sure where she was. Then Courtney pulled her out and she quickly caught up with what was going on. Greg was advancing down the aisle, forcing the panicked kids ahead of him. Brooke swore and looked round for some way to escape the chaos.

Fixed above the window was a sort of little metal hammer thing in a glass case.

‘Look,’ she said, twisting Courtney round. ‘Let’s smash the glass and get out of here.’

‘Do it!’ said Courtney.

Brooke jumped on the seat and used her elbow to break the thin glass covering the hammer and then fumbled to remove it from the clips that held it in place.

‘Let go, you stupid thing.’

At last she got her fingers round it and tore it free.