The Fear

‘I didn’t think – neither did you.’

‘Shadowman wouldn’t have got us trapped like this,’ Alfie repeated.

‘Maybe not. But I’ll get us out, Alfie. All right?’ Jester smiled at the younger boy, a light of defiance in his eyes. Alfie smiled back. All he needed was for someone to tell him that everything was going to be all right. Jester was standing up at last, acting tough, and it gave Alfie strength and hope.

‘They’re all distracted here,’ said Jester. ‘They’ll be too stupid to think of whether there might be any other ways in or out. You stay put, bang on the door, make a lot of noise. Draw them all here. Let them think we’re not going anywhere.’

‘OK, yeah. I get it.’

‘Good man, Alfie. I’ll be right back.’

Alfie watched Jester run to the top of the stairs again, and then he returned to his station. The chairs were holding. With no room to give, the door wasn’t jumping so much in its frame now. Alfie’s smile grew wider. It felt good to have a plan. They could get one over on the strangers. Kids could always beat them, because they were smarter. The grown-ups’ weakness was their stupidity.

He banged his fists against the woodwork and was answered from the other side by a frenzied scurrying, scraping, moaning assault on the door.

‘Yeah?’ Alfie yelled, his voice high-pitched and hysterical. ‘You hear that? That’s me! Alfie Walker. Yeah? And I’m cleverer than you dumb bitches! You stupid ugly farts. Yeah, knock on the door all you like – you ain’t coming in. And, if you do, I’ll split you with my knife. I’ll rip your rotten guts out. I’ll kick your brains up the walls!’

He started to laugh as he hurled more and more insults at the strangers and came up with gorier and gorier ways to splatter them. His voice eventually started to grow hoarse and he realized that Jester had been gone an awfully long time. He turned and looked up the stairs. The candle was nearly burnt down.

Where was he?

‘Jester!’ he called. ‘Jester, how are you getting on?’

There was no reply. Before Alfie could shout again he was distracted by a change in the noise at the door. There was a harder, sharper bang, and a crunching noise. He picked up the flickering candle and moved it closer. Then it came again – THWACK – and a big crack appeared down the middle of the door. They were hitting it with something. Something sharp. Strangers didn’t normally use tools of any kind, or weapons, but some of them, the cleverer ones, the ones who weren’t as far gone, would sometimes pick things up. Then it was like some deep memory would kick in and they’d find themselves back in their old lives, doing DIY on a weekend, working in the garden, chopping wood …

‘Jester?’ Alfie called. ‘Hurry up. They’re using a tool of some sort. They’re hacking through the door, mate!’

Another crash and the point of a metal object punched through. Alfie swore and ran up the steps calling Jester’s name.

‘Where the hell are you?’ He moved from room to room, but there was no sign of the other boy.

And then he went into the kitchen.

The window was open.

Alfie went very cold.

Surely Jester wouldn’t have just abandoned him?

But that was quickly followed by another thought.

Why not?

He’d abandoned Shadowman, who was supposedly his best friend. A cold achy feeling filled Alfie’s guts. He went over to the window and looked out. The sky was clouded over, but there was just enough light from the moon to see a low flat roof below. Beyond that was a small backyard and an alleyway.

Empty.

‘Jester …?’

Alfie was crying. He wiped his nose.

‘Bastard …’

Another crash from downstairs, followed by the sound of splintering wood, and then the noise of the strangers themselves.

They were through.

Alfie dropped his knife down on to the lower roof and squeezed out of the window. He found it hard to calculate the drop in the darkness. He hung there nervously for a moment, summoning the courage to let go, and then something struck his hand and he released his grip. He landed badly, jarring his ankles and knees. But there was no time to feel sorry for himself. He staggered to the edge and realized he was going to have to jump again. Shaking his numb hand, he looked up at the window. It was blocked by strangers fighting to get out.

He took a deep breath and launched himself off the flat roof. He landed better this time, but it still sent sharp jolts of pain up his legs and into his spine. He tried to walk and shrieked in agony. His legs were on fire.

There was a thump from above and he looked up to see that a father had dropped from the window. Alfie realized to his horror that he had forgotten to pick up his knife. There was no question of climbing back up to get it.

The father shuffled to the edge of the flat roof and jumped down. There was a horrible snapping noise and he collapsed, his broken leg bones sticking through his trousers.

That made Alfie feel a little better. He mustn’t act like a wimp. He wasn’t so badly hurt. He limped to the back gate, barged it open and looked both ways along the alley that ran behind the houses. No sign of bloody Jester.

He spat.

Another stranger dropped out of the window.

Alfie started hobbling down the alley, his knees killing him, swearing under his breath with every step. He wished he had his knife. He wasn’t intending to be doing any fighting if he could help it – all he wanted to do right now was get away and find another hiding-place – but holding on to the knife had given him courage.

He left the alley where it joined the main road. There was nobody around. He was alone, out here on the streets with no idea where he was. There were sounds behind him. The hunters were on his tail. They could probably smell him. He tried to speed up, but it hurt too much. Tears were streaming down his face. Tears of anger and fear and betrayal and self-pity. First Kate and Tom had left him, and now Jester. He didn’t deserve this.

Well, he’d show them. He’d show them he could survive. He’d got this far, hadn’t he? After the sickness struck he was alone on the streets for nearly two weeks before linking up with some other kids, who he’d ended up going to the palace with.

He’d done it before – he could do it again.

Don’t wimp out …

He put his hand up to dry his eyes and felt a splash of something warm across his face. A wave of nausea hit him and a terrible pain ripped through his hand.

Now what?

He whimpered. His fingers had been severed at the joints. It must have been when he was hanging from the window frame. Something had hit him. Chopped his fingers clean off.

He leant against a wall, clutching his ruined hand, and threw up.

This was bad. Really bad. He’d lost his fingers. He was bleeding. This was so bad …

He had to keep moving, though.

He stumbled along in the road, sobbing wildly. He had to find a hiding-place. He had to choose a house. Get inside. Off the street. Tend to his wound. He swerved into a smaller side-road. Ran past darkened houses. Trying not to think about his hand. His fingers.

Oh God.

He ran up to a front door, booted it and it swung open easily.

See. He could do it.

He walked forward in the dark. He wished he had a torch, but Jester had taken the only one. They hadn’t expected to be out after dark. They should have been back at the palace hours ago. He wondered what they’d all be doing right now. Back home. Settling down to eat? Or clearing up? He had no idea what time it was. Would they be thinking about him?

Just wait till he got back and told them what Jester had done …

He stopped, and stood there, panting, blood dripping on the floor, his lungs and heart working too fast. Pain taking over.

He hated being alone.

Then he felt a hand on his shoulder. He spun round.