The Dead

‘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 bo

‘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 fu

He was searching for something fu

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 sca

‘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.’