The Dead

Up close Greg stank like a sewer. His body felt hot and damp. His breath came straight from an abattoir. He was breathing through his mouth, and pink-flecked saliva foamed at his lips.

He may have been sick but he was still stronger than Ed who was losing his grip on Greg’s wrist.

Then Jack was with him, making a grab for the cleaver.

‘No, Jack!’ Ed yelled. ‘You’re hurt. I can do this.’

‘It’s all right,’ said Jack.

Just then Greg’s arm slipped out of Ed’s hand and the cleaver came round. Jack gasped and fell back, but Greg was thrown off balance. Ed let go of his neck and slammed the heel of his palm into Greg’s windpipe. Greg coughed and went limp, dropping his weapon. As he staggered backwards, taking tiny, dainty steps, Ed scrabbled to pick up the fallen cleaver.

His fingers closed around the slippery handle and he twisted round to face Greg.

He was standing there, fighting for breath, wide open, an easy target.

Ed didn’t have to think twice. The killing rage was on him again. He moved in …

And then he saw what Greg was carrying under his arm, what had looked at first like the sort of pitiful bundle of rags that a street person would carry around.

Only it wasn’t rags. It was a small dead body.

‘Liam?’ said Ed.

It was like a switch had been thrown in Greg’s head. The madness was gone and for a moment he was human again. He looked down at the creased, purple face of his son and wailed in horror.

Then he looked at Ed, shook his head and ran off down the road towards the common.

Ed ran a few paces after him, then stopped. He wanted to follow him, to try to finish it, but he couldn’t leave his friends. There might be other sickos around.

He went back. Jack was lying curled up into a ball, clutching his stomach. But, thank God, he was still alive. Ed knelt down and put a hand to him.

‘Jack?’

‘He cut me, Ed. He cut me open.’

‘I’ll get you home.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Jack grunted. ‘Too stubborn to die, remember? But how’s that big idiot, Bam? Is he OK? I want to tell him I don’t blame him. It wasn’t his fault.’

Ed went over to Bam. It was no good. It was all crap. There were no happy endings. Nobody watching over them. Only misery and struggle. And what for? Good people died as well as bad.

Greg’s cleaver had split open the back of Bam’s skull.

He was gone.

Ed sat down in the middle of the road and wept.

54

Jack was unconscious. He felt as heavy as two people, and Ed could hardly put one foot in front of the other as he staggered down the road with his friend on his shoulder. He’d figured the best thing would be to deal with Jack’s wounds when they reached the relative safety of his house. It was too dangerous to stay out on the streets. It would be growing dark soon and then the sickos would emerge from their hiding places and go hunting for food. It had been fine at first. He’d managed to coax Jack back on to his feet, promising all the while that he would get him safely home, reassuring him, encouraging him, until eventually Jack had started walking.

He’d been reasonably cheerful when they set off. He was able to talk and, although clumsy and weak, he could at least hold himself upright, but he’d gradually become vague and confused and finally he’d slumped against Ed, his feet dragging along the road. Now Ed was just pulling him along. He’d tried slapping him and yelling at him like they did in films, but it didn’t seem to do anything. Luckily Jack had given him pretty clear directions and an address before they’d set off again, but the journey seemed to be never-ending.

Ed was really scared.

Jack’s clothes were stained black from the bleeding, and his wounds were starting to smell. Ed’s hand around his ribs was slick with blood. He worried that holding him like this was tearing him open, but he had no choice.

If they were attacked now, he doubted he could do much to defend his friend. He’d reloaded his pistol and it dangled from his other hand, growing heavier with each step. He longed to shove it back in its holster, or even throw it aside, but he knew he had to keep hold of it. It might be the only thing between him and a horrible death.

He came to a junction and checked the street names.

Thank God.

They were there at last. A typically English street of semi-detached houses with pointy roofs, white painted porches with balconies over the top, and once-neat little front gardens behind low stone walls.

‘Come on, Jack,’ he panted. ‘Help me. You’re nearly home. Just take a step, yeah?’

Now that the end was in sight Ed felt more exhausted than ever. This final leg was going to be the hardest. If only Jack would wake up and help him.

‘Look, this is your street,’ he said. ‘That’s your house up ahead … Come on, I’m not sure I can do this … Jack, walk, please walk, don’t give up on me. They’ll all be waiting for you. Your sisters, your mum and dad, they’re all there. I can see them at the door, waving, calling to you, come on, Jack, do it for them.’

Something inside Jack’s brain must have been functioning, because he groaned and Ed felt him stirring in his arms. Then his feet no longer dragged. They searched for a footing, took a step, then another. He was weak and uncoordinated but he was walking again.

Ed laughed and cried at the same time.

‘That’s it. Come on, Jack, that’s it.’ He looked at the house numbers as they passed. 67, 65, 63, 61 … Only another thirty to go. No, less, because this was the odd-numbered side of the street. Fifteen houses, fourteen …

He looked round at Jack. His eyes were open, rolling in his head, but he was struggling to focus. He recognized the street.

‘You see,’ said Ed. ‘I told you I’d get you home. You can lie in your own bed again.’

49, 47, 45, 43 …

They were going unbearably slowly but they were still moving. Ed had all but forgotten his own wound, where Greg’s cleaver had sliced his face open. There hadn’t been time to do anything more than press a load of tissues against the cut. It was only when he put his hand up to wipe the sweat from his eyes that he felt the wad of paper still stuck there on the dried blood. As he tried to pull them away it sent a flash of pain through his head.

It was nothing, he told himself, compared to Jack’s wounds.

35, 33, 31 …

They were there at last. Ed looked up at the house. The same as all the others. The cars parked outside in the road told him that this was an expensive street, though the houses weren’t that big.

He dragged Jack up the front steps and let him flop down in the porch. He gently felt Jack’s neck and took hold of the bootlace, then fished the key out. He lifted it over Jack’s head and slipped the key into the lock. The door clicked open. It all felt so normal and familiar.

He put the key back over Jack’s heart and then bent down to lift him up. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done. Jack wasn’t helping and Ed was very nearly done for. His back felt like it was going to snap. Somehow, though, he managed to haul his friend up and in through the door, which he kicked shut behind him. It was dark inside without electricity and the windows covered in grime, but there was just enough light to show that the house hadn’t been looted or trashed by anyone. It smelt stale and slightly rotten, but otherwise Ed might have simply been entering a locked-up house after a long holiday. His mum and dad had taken him to Australia for a month one Christmas to visit a cousin and when they’d got back the house had felt all stuffy and kind of dead.