The Fear

He jumped up from the bed.

That was three of them down.

Which meant there were only three left.

It was far from over, though. The remaining three came at him in a group, swamping him with their bodies. He had no time to reload and dropped the bow, wishing he had gone for the machete instead. As he struggled to bring up his knife arm, one of his attackers took hold of it; another was trying to bite his throat. The third one was at his back, pounding him with his weapon. All three were pressed against him and the smell was awful. Fighting off panic, he once again powered backwards, knocking the stranger over behind him. The biter was still at his throat. Quickly Shadowman brought his knee up then kicked down, aiming at where he thought the biter’s knee might be. He co

Shadowman was still only getting odd glimpses of his attackers as they stumbled about in the half-light. He looked round at the stranger who had his knife hand and saw a puffy mother’s face, swollen with boils and growths, twisted and misshapen. His knife was still out of action, so he would have to fight like a stranger now. If they could scratch, then so could he. He reached over and jabbed at the mother’s eyes. As his nails made contact with her lower eyelids, he tugged down hard. It was like ripping off an especially sticky bandage. There was a tearing noise and half the mother’s face came away. Shadowman was left with a handful of skin and pus. The mother loosened her grip just enough for him to be able to bring the knife up at last. He plunged it into the guts of the father with the broken knee, followed it up with a quick slash to left and right across the mother’s neck and he was left with only one assailant.

The father with the weapon who he had knocked over.

He’d scrambled across the floor and got to his feet on the other side of the room. Now he was holding back in the darkness, blocking the doorway.

Shadowman was fighting for breath, dripping with sweat and blood, and worse. There were countless small wounds all over his exposed skin, but as far as he could tell none of them was life threatening. His ribs burned, his throat was horribly dry, his legs shaking, his heart thumping, but he was still upright.

And so far he was wi

He knew he had to keep going while he was ahead. Not let up.

He raised his knife and winced. His whole arm ached and he felt like he had wrenched his shoulder.

Ignore it.

Fight through the pain.

The last stranger stepped into the light.

With a jolt Shadowman realized he recognized him.

It was the One-Armed Bandit. He was naked from the waist up, the stump of his missing arm wagging. He was holding a sharp stone in his remaining hand. The sort of thing a Neanderthal might have used as a tool.

Heavy and dangerous-looking, but nothing compared to Shadowman’s knife. If he held his nerve, this would soon be over.

The Bandit came closer. His gums were massively swollen, as if he was holding two sausages under his lips. The tiny yellow stubs of his teeth looked like little lumps of sweetcorn. He appeared to be smiling, but Shadowman knew that it was just the way his lips were being forced back by his puffed-up gums.

He swung the stone through the air as he moved closer and closer to Shadowman, his breath bubbling in his throat.

Shadowman charged. And it all went wrong. He hadn’t seen the one whose tendons he’d cut lying on the floor in front of him. The father flung his arms round his legs and brought him down. Shadowman swore for the first time and stabbed the father in the chest. He instantly knew that this was a mistake as the blade caught in his ribs. And, as Shadowman tried to tug it out, the One-Armed Bandit fell on him.

To make it worse, the father he had stabbed wasn’t dead. He was writhing and gurgling and feebly trying to pull the knife out. Shadowman was sandwiched between him and the Bandit, who was battering him with the stone again. He was too close to do much damage, however, and Shadowman was able to twist round and punch him in the face, splattering his nose and cutting his top lip open. The Bandit groaned, rolled fully on top of him and put his mouth to Shadowman’s neck. Luckily his teeth were so deeply embedded in his inflamed gums he couldn’t properly bite. The feel of his wet, blubbery lips was revolting and Shadowman thought he might be sick.

He fought it and kept his focus. The first thing was to stop the stabbed father from straining against him. Shadowman took hold of the Bandit’s wrist and used his hand to hammer the knife in deeper. The stone co

He let go of the Bandit’s wrist.

The hammer blows must have loosened the knife and broken some of the father’s ribs as well, because now the Bandit’s fingers closed round the handle. Before Shadowman knew what was happening the Bandit had slid the knife free and was trying to stab him. Shadowman managed to react just in time, grabbing the Bandit’s hand and holding the knife in the air above him.

The pain that pulsed through his tensed muscles was excruciating. His arms shook with the effort. He knew he mustn’t let go. The point of the blade was aimed straight at his left eye. It hovered there, only centimetres away, dripping blood on to him. He blinked some away and swallowed hard.

The Bandit’s sour breath felt hot on his skin and his horrible, leering face pressed closer.

As Shadowman lay there, locked in this lethal embrace, the stranger’s weight crushing him, the fire in the supermarket must have flared up, because, for a few precious seconds, the room was brightly lit. Out of the corner of his eye Shadowman spotted the machete lying half a metre away on the carpet.

The only problem was it would mean freeing one hand to reach for it and he wasn’t sure he was strong enough to hold the Bandit’s knife off with just the other one.

He would have to risk it, though, as the knife was creeping ever closer to his eye.

Do it now.

Do it quickly.

There was no choice.

He barked out a harsh swear-word and in one swift movement he groped for the machete, picked it up and swung it.

The next moment he was still holding the hand that held the knife, but all the weight had gone from it. He had sliced clean through the Bandit’s arm, which flopped down harmlessly, spurting blood.

The full, unsupported weight of the Bandit slumped on to Shadowman, suffocating him. He couldn’t use the machete again; the two of them were too tightly entwined. Instead he kept hold of the severed hand, turned it and stabbed the knife into the side of the Bandit’s neck.

‘That was for Tom and Kate,’ he said, tearing the blade through tendons and arteries. ‘And the boy over the road … And for me …’

73

It was taking him an awfully long time to die.

His name was Jamie. He was thirteen. Paul had been pretty friendly with him once. Then Jamie had found a new gang to hang out with. They’d probably been laughing at Paul behind his back. Not any more.

Jamie had been checking the lower levels at the museum by himself when he’d come across Paul. He should never have been by himself. If Robbie hadn’t been recovering from his attack, he would have made sure the patrols were properly organized. As it was, it just made Paul’s job easier. He’d smiled at Jamie and before he knew what was happening Paul had put his hands round his neck and started to squeeze.

He’d never realized before how strong he was. Nothing could shift his fingers from Jamie’s throat. No matter how hard Jamie struggled. He squeezed as hard as he could. How long did it take for someone to die?