The Fear

Maybe some small good had come out of the seemingly senseless deaths of Donut and Courtney.

She had linked up with these new kids.

They had things to do together.

Stories to tell.

It was fate.

‘I just want to go home,’ she said.

71

David and Jester were both gulping, laughing and grimacing. They clutched their throats in theatrical displays of choking. The room was full of thick cigar smoke and the reek of whisky. David took another puff of his cigar and then tried another tentative sip from his glass. He coughed and Jester laughed even harder. David joined him. Soon they were both slumped in chairs laughing helplessly. David laughed so hard he blew a candle out and that only made the two of them laugh harder.

‘Whisky is disgusting,’ David gasped, once he’d got his breath back.

‘You’ll grow into it,’ said Jester. ‘Remember you’re just a fourteen-year-old boy. It’s easy to forget sometimes.’

‘We’ve had to grow up fast,’ said David, and he put his glass down on the table.

‘You should get a coaster for that,’ said Jester. ‘Or you’ll make a ring.’

David gave him a dirty look, then dipped his fingers in the whisky and flicked some at Jester who yelped and swore.

‘I’m not that grown up just yet, thank you very much,’ he said. ‘I’m not ready for my pipe and slippers.’

‘Look at us, though,’ said Jester. ‘Sitting here in Buckingham Palace drinking whisky and smoking cigars and plotting to take over the world. Can you believe it? How did it happen?’

‘Crazy, isn’t it,’ said David, and they began to talk about the past, everything that had happened to them, the twisted interco

All in all, they were very pleased with themselves.

What could possibly go wrong with their plans?

There was a knock on the door.

‘Who is it?’

‘Jonathan.’

David looked to Jester. Then back at the door. Jonathan was a junior guard. It wasn’t normal for him to interrupt David when he was in a meeting. Only Pod and Jester had the authority to do that.

David rested his cigar in an ashtray, waving smoke away from his face.

‘What do you want?’

‘There’s a problem.’

‘Well, yes, I assume there’s a problem, or you wouldn’t be bothering us. What sort of a problem?’

Jester hauled himself out of his chair and went over to open the door. He glared at Jonathan who looked nervous and sweaty.

‘Well?’

‘I-it’s the royal family,’ he stammered.

‘What about them?’

‘They’ve got out.’

72

Stupid. How could he have been so stupid?

To doze off. Here. Exposed like this, within spitting distance of the strangers’ army. To drop his guard so disastrously …

Dead stupid.

After St George had brought the boy’s head out on the pole the strangers had somehow set fire to the shop. How they’d done it he had no idea. Had they really remembered how to use matches? Cigarette lighters? Or had it been an accident?

He didn’t know, and he’d watched helplessly as flames had climbed into the night sky. Then the strangers, with nothing to unite them, had milled about in the road, grunting and hissing and brawling with each other, as the supermarket steadily burnt down behind them. It had looked like nothing much more was going to happen tonight. Some of them had even broken up into smaller groups and found places to sleep.

At some point Shadowman had fallen asleep too …

And now they were here.

They hadn’t all gone to sleep. Some had obviously started roaming the streets, looking for more food, their senses alert. After all, there had only been that one lone boy in the supermarket. He wouldn’t have fed that many of them. As long as they’d been concentrating all their efforts on getting at him they hadn’t bothered with anyone else. Now they were bored and hungry and fired up by St George.

And no one was safe.

Anywhere.

A noise must have disturbed Shadowman because his eyes snapped open and he was awake in a split second, his brain on a tight trigger. The supermarket was still on fire and there was a dim flickering orange glow in the room. He had just long enough to clock several large bodies bundling through the door before they were on him.

He’d been lying on his back on the bed, his weapons laid out next to him ready for action. There was no time, though, to get to them. By the time he was awake, a big father with no hair was pawing at him. Shadowman brought his hands up to protect himself and discovered that he was still holding his knife. He hadn’t totally dropped his guard. He slashed at the father’s forearms and rolled off the side of the bed.

He hit the floor with a thump and found himself surrounded by a forest of legs. He thought there must be five or six strangers in the room. The light from the fire over the road did little to lift the darkness. It was hard to see anything in here, which was worse for him than it was for them, as they acted as much on smell as on sight, whereas he had to rely solely on his eyes. His only advantage was how cramped it was in the room. The clumsy strangers were bumping into each other in their eagerness to get at him. He stayed low, scuttling across the carpet, avoiding grasping hands and slashing at the grown-ups’ lower legs. One went down heavily as he sliced through the tendons in his ankles. He lay there moaning and thrashing about, spraying blood all over the place as his useless legs kicked out.

Shadowman bumped up against the wall and two fathers cornered him, making a grab for his clothing. Shadowman forced himself on to his feet, powering up with all his strength and headbutting one of them in the chin. The father’s head jerked back and Shadowman heard a clack as his jaws were forced together. He got a glimpse of a bleeding mouth. He elbowed the second father in the throat, lashed out with his knife and pulled away from the two of them.

He had to get to the bed and reach his other weapons. He needed the machete.

But one of the other strangers hit him with something in the back of his head and he reeled across the room, stu

Shadowman’s head cleared and he was filled with a wild energy. He knew he was fighting for his life. He whirled round blindly, his knife cutting anything it hit. He didn’t scream or shout. He was trying desperately not to make a sound in case it attracted the whole army. If that happened, he had no chance. He had to hope that this was just a small hunting pack.

He felt fingernails scraping down one arm, tearing at the material of his jacket. At least they didn’t seem to be armed.

No sooner had he had that thought when a long arm came flying out of the darkness and struck him in the chest with some sharp object. His ribs ached from the blow, as if one of them had snapped, and he felt wetness under his shirt.

He stabbed towards the attacker with his knife and it co