The Dead

‘Give me the gun!’

‘All right.’

They stopped and propped Jack against a car.

Ed ripped the pistol from the holster at his waist and gave it to Jack. Bam turned, raised his shotgun. He hadn’t thought to reload it since shooting Jack at the Oval – he’d been too distracted – but he was fairly sure he still had one shell ready in the barrel. He took aim, squeezed the trigger and felt the gun kick against his aching shoulder.

The lead father fell back.

Jack was ready now. He pointed the pistol and fired. The gun sent a shockwave of pain down his arm as it jumped in his hand. The bullet completely missed its target.

Bam fumbled in his jacket pocket for more cartridges and discovered to his horror that the pocket was ripped and hanging half off. There was only one lone shell left.

Jack slid down the side of the car and sat with his back against it. This time he held the gun firmly with both hands and fired two shots in quick succession. The next sicko went down.

Bam broke his shotgun, slotted in his last shell and fired again. A third father fell.

Then he was out of shells and the sickos were on them.

Ed had backed away as the sickos advanced, so that he was behind Bam and Jack. He watched as a mother made a grab for Jack who feebly tried to bat her away with his pistol. Bam charged into the rest of them with a war cry, his shotgun reversed in his hands like a club. He whacked three sickos aside, barging into a fourth one and knocking her flat. He carried on past the group until he was well clear, then turned and came flying back, barrelling through the sickos like a mad bull.

Ed didn’t know what to do. It had all happened so quickly. The sickos had come from nowhere. For a few seconds he stood there, unable to move. The mother who had gone for Jack had been joined by a father. They had hold of him and were dragging him away. He was too weak to resist.

Bam had gone down in a tangle of bodies and was trying to stand up with three sickos on his back.

Ed closed his eyes. And then it was as if something broke inside him, a wire that been twisted tighter and tighter and tighter had finally snapped. A weird calmness settled over him. An emptiness.

He opened his eyes.

‘No.’ He spoke softly, quietly. Then louder. ‘No.’

Finally he screamed, ‘No!’ and ran at the two sickos who had Jack. He shoved the mother aside, kicked the father in the stomach and then punched him in the nose, splattering it across his diseased and pockmarked face. He kept moving and snatched up the fallen pistol before pulling Jack clear and dumping him behind a van for safety. He leant down, checked that Jack was conscious, then put the pistol back into his hands and took hold of the handle of his sword.

‘I need this,’ he said, pulling it from its scabbard.

As he straightened up, he saw the father with the flattened nose coming right at him, arms raised. Ed slashed wildly at him and he went down in a spray of blood. One of the mothers was right behind. Again Ed chopped the sword through the air. The mother hissed and collapsed to her knees, clutching her bloody face.

Ed could hear a horrible screeching, keening sound, high and angry, like some huge hungry bird of prey attacking.

He realized he was making the sound. He had a blood lust on him, a killing frenzy. He was no longer thinking about what he was doing. He wasn’t thinking about anything. He had become a mindless animal. Outside he was this yelling, screaming monster, and inside there was that weird calm, as if he had become two people, one acting, one watching.

And he somehow knew that he would never be the same again. The blade rose and fell, rose and fell, glinting as it cut through the air.

Almost in slow motion a father came at him and Ed plunged the sword into his belly. The flesh sucked at the blade, holding it hard, and as Ed tried to pull it free the father fell sideways and twisted it out of his grip.

Ed didn’t stop; he ran to Bam and got hold of an attacking mother by the hair. He wrenched her head back so hard he felt something snap and carried on, kicking, gouging, snarling at the sickos, prising them loose one by one and tossing them aside. At last Bam was up, scratched and bloody but all right. Encouraged by Ed’s efforts he was off again, charging the sickos and crunching into them.

Ed heard a gun shot. Jack was fending off another attack. The sickos had evidently singled him out as being the easiest target. Ed ran over just as a fat young mother got to him. He took her by the face, digging his fingers in. Her skin was thick with boils, and blood and pus ran down her neck as she twisted and writhed and thrashed about.

Jack shot at a father who was getting too close and Ed threw the mother hard against the van, knocking the fight out of her. Then he went back for the sword and at last managed to wrench it out of the dead father.

He turned, sword raised …

But it was all over.

There were only three sickos left now. Two big fathers and a teenager. They looked at the carnage and had enough sense to get away. As they hobbled off, Jack rolled out from behind the van and fired off another three shots, taking down the teenager.

Bam stood there, jeering at the fathers as they scarpered. He was exhausted, his clothes torn and spotted with blood, but there was a look of crazy joy on his face.

‘Yeah, you useless buggers!’ he yelled. ‘Get lost! You can’t take us! We owned you. We’re kings of the streets!’

Ed whooped and gri

‘That was easy,’ said Ed, drunk with happiness and relief.

Bam stopped dancing and rested his hands on his knees, laughing too much to carry on.

‘Come and help me with Jack,’ said Ed.

‘OK.’ Bam straightened up and as he did so another father stepped out from behind the hedge of somebody’s front garden. Ed saw a flash as he swung his arm at the back of Bam’s head.

Bam grunted and fell face down on the pavement with a horrible thud.

It was Greg.

He held a bloody meat cleaver in one hand and a large bundle under his arm. There were blisters on his face and his mouth was ringed with scarlet. There was a look of unthinking madness in his eyes.

He took a step towards Ed.

‘Get out of the way!’ Jack yelled, and Ed instinctively ducked to one side.

Jack aimed the pistol and pulled back hard on the trigger four times.

There were four pitiful clicks, like a child’s cap gun, but nothing else.

‘Ed?’ Jack yelled. ‘I need more bullets!’

‘They’re all in my bag,’ Ed replied, but even as he said it he knew there wasn’t time to get at them. Greg was walking fast towards him, legs wide, the meat cleaver swinging in long, vicious arcs.

Ed realized he still had the sword. He lunged at Greg but misjudged the distance. The tip of the blade raked across his chest, slitting open his jacket and shirt but doing little harm.

Greg didn’t even pause. Just kept on coming.

He swiped wildly downwards and as Ed jumped back he felt the cleaver swish past his cheek.

He felt a sudden weird attack of dizziness. His cheek felt hot and there was a sharp pain, like a wasp sting. He put his hand to his face. It was drenched with blood and more blood was already pouring off his chin and on to his jacket.

Ed felt anger rise inside him, filling the emptiness. He moved in and lunged again. It was either luck, or some kind of dumb reaction, but Greg managed to bring his cleaver up just in time. The sword hit it with a clang that jarred Ed’s arm. The blade shattered, but knocked the cleaver to one side.

Ed didn’t wait. He dropped the useless sword and ran at Greg. It was like ru