The Sacrifice

  No.

  Shadowman gasped as the car was toppled over.

  That was it. The rest of the kids had no chance. No chance at all. It was all over.

  Shadowman was weeping with frustration. He couldn’t believe that because of Saif’s arrogance and stupidity he’d had to watch another massacre. Another hopelessly outnumbered and outgunned bunch of kids being overwhelmed and slaughtered like pigs. He swore at Saif for putting his people into this danger, for not listening …

  For losing.

  Idiots. Beaten by strangers.

  And then he felt a cold stab of guilt. For a second he had been proud of St George, proud of his strangers, how good they were.

  The mob was feeding. He recognized the signs. Picked out St George holding a head in the air as if it was the World Cup.

  They were getting better every day. This level of planning and order was terrifying. The way St George had seemed to know the cars were coming and had laid a trap. Had hidden all those mindless freaks in the nearby buildings. And he’d done it fast.

  Like a swarm of ants. A million individuals forming one single unit with one single mind. That was what they looked like from up here. A swarm of ants. How could that be? Just days ago they’d been a disorganized rabble, with no way of communicating with each other. What had changed?

  He couldn’t answer any of these questions right now. The thing was, St George was leading a proper army southwards. Shadowman had been struck by how close to the centre of town he was. If The Fear kept up this pace they could be at Buckingham Palace before the morning.

  All those kids in town. Grown lazy. Thinking they’d got rid of all the strangers. How would they cope if St George turned up on their doorstep? Oh, they could stay indoors, safe behind the palace walls, but how would they eat? And what would happen if they foolishly sent troops out to deal with the new threat?

  Not just David and his kids, but the ones at the museum; at the Houses of Parliament. Even John and his pirates at the squatter camp. They were kids like him. They were all at risk.

  No. St George had to be stopped somehow before he became unstoppable.

  It didn’t take the strangers long to finish feeding. After only a few minutes they were on the move again, leaving behind a wash of blood across the road, littered with torn clothing and bones. Even the dead strangers had been eaten. Nothing was wasted.

  Nothing.

  Except.

  There.

  Could it be?

  The pick-up truck was on its side, smoke coming from the engine. The other pick-up truck sat there with its doors open. The sports car was empty. The second 4x4 was untouched, though, and Shadowman was sure he could just make out the shape of someone sitting inside it. Was it possible that one of the kids had got in there and the strangers hadn’t been able to get to them? In their drive to keep moving had they simply left them behind?

  They could be wounded. They could need help.

  Shadowman had to see. If he could save just one kid …

  He packed up his gear and climbed back down the ladder. It was raining hard now and it made the rungs slippery and dangerous. His heart was pounding. His head ached. His injured ribs felt like they were digging into his lungs. Every cut and bruise on his body was complaining.

  He tried to go too fast and was nearly at the bottom when he slipped, wrenching his right knee. He swore. That was all he needed. It sent shooting pains up his leg.

  ‘You bloody moron,’ he cursed himself. ‘Go more carefully.’

  He slithered down the last few dripping rungs and winced as he jumped to the ground. He could walk OK, but it hurt like a bastard and would slow him down. Jesus, he was becoming just one big mess of wounds.

  He limped across the building site, the rain beating down on his head, and this time it was much harder climbing over the fence. What with the rain and his desperation and his throbbing knee.

  He hobbled on towards the roundabout. The first flash of lightning lifted up the sky, and as he got to the car a few seconds later, it was followed by a rolling clap of thunder. He peered in the car window, wiping away the rain that poured down the glass. There was definitely someone there. A boy.

  ‘Open up,’ he shouted. The boy didn’t move. Shadowman tried the door. Locked. He looked around for something to smash the window with and saw a baseball bat lying under the sports car. He fished it out and swung it at the window, but it bounced off without doing any damage. So he tried the butt end, jabbing it at the window. After a couple of goes it shattered and a shower of glittering shards tinkled into the road.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  The boy was sitting bolt upright, face white, his fingers gripping the steering wheel. Terrified.

  Shadowman recognized him as one of the gang who’d been shooting at the mother from the footbridge.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Shadowman leant over and gave him a shake. The boy slowly toppled towards him, revealing that his neck on the other side had been torn out.

  He’d made it into the car only to lock the doors on his friends and die.

  What a waste of time. What a waste of a life. What a stupid, bloody waste.

  Shadowman pulled his cloak round himself to keep the worst of the rain off and limped over the roundabout in the direction that St George had taken. It was back to this, following The Fear and watching them kill. How long was this going to go on?

  He’d been walking for a couple of minutes, wondering if his knee was going to hold out, when he suddenly stopped and swore into the rain.

  Moron.

  The car.

  He could drive it. Take the weight off his knee. He’d be safer in a car, more mobile and, let’s face it, drier. OK, so he’d never driven one before, but how hard could it be with no other vehicles on the road?

  He turned round, setting his face into the driving rain as a lightning flash ripped across the sky, turning the road brilliantly white, picking out a group of strangers coming towards him. Fast and purposeful. The father at their head was wearing a blue business suit, a mobile phone earpiece sitting on the side of his warty head.

  It was Bluetooth and his little gang. He’d forgotten all about them.

  Moron, moron, stupid bloody moron …

  He slipped his crossbow off his back and fired a bolt. Didn’t wait to see if he’d hit anything. Just turned and started jogging, his knee exploding in pain with every footstep.

  He couldn’t get to the car now. All he could do was try to run.

  Run for his life.

  52

  It was officially called the Millennium Footbridge, built to celebrate the start of another thousand years, for a city that was already nearly two thousand years old. A beautiful, architecturally daring new way to get across the river. A suspension bridge with the supporting cables out to the sides rather than over the top. It linked the City of London with the Tate Modern art gallery on the other side. Mr Rosen, a teacher at Rowhurst, Ed’s school, had been obsessed with modern architecture and was always bringing boys up to town to show them stuff: the Thames Barrier, the Lloyd’s building, the Gherkin.

  And this – the grandly named Millennium Footbridge.

  Only everyone called it the Wobbly Bridge. When it had first opened, so many people had tried to cross it at the same time it had set up a rhythm that made the bridge vibrate and wobble. Mr Rosen had loved telling the kids that story, had even taken them to see the Albert Bridge, further up the Thames, where there was still an old sign that ordered soldiers from the nearby barracks to break step when crossing. They weren’t allowed to march in time because the vibrations could set up a shock wave, like an earthquake, that could bring the bridge tumbling into the Thames.

  There weren’t enough of them today to do any damage to the Wobbly Bridge. Only six of them were crossing it. Bozo had been right. It had been much easier getting here along the South Bank. Any sickos they’d seen along the way they’d easily avoided and it was only when they’d got to the bridge that they’d needed
to use their weapons.

  There had been a small knot of sickos round the barricade at the southern end, staring dumbly at it. It had been no sweat getting rid of them. Ed hadn’t even joined in the fight. He and Kyle had stood back and let Hayden take charge. Let her gain some experience. She’d led the attack well. She and Adele, Macca and Will had dealt with the sickos quickly and efficiently, clearing the way so that they could climb over the barricade.

  Ed was relieved that the journey back had been so much less stressful than the journey into town. It was going to be easy from here. There was a walkway from the north end of the bridge leading right up to St Paul’s. The cathedral looked impressive, with storm clouds overhead, its white stones under the great grey dome lit up every now and then by flashes of lightning.

  The storm was right on top of them. Rain thrashed the surface of the river which frothed and foamed beneath their feet.

  Ed urged the kids on. They were so close and it had been a long day. Whatever else they could expect when they got to the cathedral, at least it would be dry inside.

  ‘But there’s one rule,’ he shouted above the noise of the wind whining in the metal struts of the bridge. ‘We don’t kill kids. Whatever happens, we don’t kill kids. That’s not our way. If we start killing each other then we’re the same as the grown-ups. We might as well try to catch the disease and become sickos ourselves.’

  He stopped shouting, remembering the girl he’d killed the other day. Tish’s friend. That had been different, though, hadn’t it? It was an accident. He hadn’t seen her clearly in the dark and she was halfway dead anyway …

  At least that’s what he told himself.

  And Matt.

  Well, his desire to kill him had gone away as quickly as it had arrived.

  Matt wasn’t worth it.

  ‘My God!’ Hayden, who had been leading them over the bridge, stopped in her tracks.

  ‘What is it?’ Ed shouted, his hand going to his sword.

  ‘Look at that … ’ She was pointing at something on the north bank. Ed squinted through the rain, not sure what he was looking for, and then realized with a jolt that he’d been looking at it all along without registering it. What he’d thought was a pile of wet rocks or rubble, part of Matt’s defences, was in fact sickos. A huge, tightly packed mob of them, their clothes black with grease and slick from the rain, their bald heads like pebbles on the shoreline. Ed was reminded of a herd of seals, packed together, too many to count. They were clustered round the end of the bridge, barely moving.

  ‘Holy crap,’ said Kyle.

  ‘Can they get on to the bridge?’ asked Adele, coming close and standing right next to Ed as if he might offer some protection from this army.

  ‘If they could they’d already be here,’ Ed answered her. ‘For now it looks like the defences are holding. They’re not clever enough to climb the barriers or pull them down. Remember when we were going along there this morning? How the bridges fly over the roads when they reach the riverbank? It looks like this bridge is the same. They can’t get up to it.’

  The sky turned white and empty as lightning flared across it. It lit up the heaving mass of bodies. For a brief moment Ed caught sight of a blur of lumpy faces, staring eyes, wet mouths. At least the rain was damping their stink down. A deafening clap of thunder came hard on the lightning. Felt like it was right inside their heads.

  ‘Let’s hurry,’ he said, and the others didn’t need to be told. They ran on to the end of the bridge and passed over the sickos. There was a familiar noise coming from them, a rhythmic rattling, clicking sound, and Ed saw that a lot of them, mainly those nearest the barricades, were hitting stones together or sticks or bits of metal they’d picked up.

  ‘They’re a right banging outfit,’ said Kyle.

  ‘This is one weird day,’ said Macca, coming up fast behind Ed. ‘Keep moving, man.’

  Ed took one last look at the inhuman percussion orchestra and sprinted up the walkway towards …

  Towards what?

  53

  Sam was still sitting on his throne. He was half asleep, drifting in and out of waking dreams. He’d lost all sense of time. He just wanted this to be over. The music had got inside him, so that he couldn’t tell the difference between his own heartbeat and the thumping of the drums. His eyes were misty from the smoke. He was seeing things, shapes forming and re-forming. He had no idea what was real any more.

  And still Matt read from his book …

  ‘ … Then I looked, and there before me was the Lamb, seated on his throne, and with him were those who had his name written on their foreheads. And I heard a sound from heaven like the roar of rushing waters and like a loud peal of thunder. The sound I heard was like that of harpists playing their harps. And they sang a new song before the throne and no one could hear the music of the song except those who had been redeemed from the earth … ’

  At this, the musicians found fresh energy and played louder. How were they keeping it up? Hour after hour they clattered on. Sam had seen a couple get too tired to carry on and their places had been taken by other kids, but most of them had been at it as long as he’d been sitting here.

  Matt waved his hands, urging them to play louder still.

  ‘Your music must drown out the storm!’ he yelled as outside the thunder rolled across the sky.

  ‘Let the Lord know that Wormwood is doing his duty!’ Matt wailed. Although he was trying to sound like an adult he had the croaky, pinched, slightly squeaky voice of a teenager whose voice was breaking. ‘The Goat is being beaten; there is a great battle taking place; we must help the Lamb. I need more. Where are the trumpeters?’

  Sam turned his head on his aching, stiff neck and saw even more musicians settling down in the choir stalls. It looked like all the kids in the cathedral who could play the trumpet were joining in, as well as two extra drummers.

  Matt was raging again, like a kid in a bad school play.

  ‘The smoke of the incense, together with the prayers of the chosen, went up before God from the angel’s hand. Then the angel took the censer, filled it with fire from the altar, and hurled it on the earth; and there came peals of thunder, rumblings, flashes of lightning and an earthquake. Then the seven angels who had the seven trumpets prepared to sound them … Sound them now!’

  The trumpeters blasted out a ragged fanfare, thunder boomed overhead and then, almost as if it had been rehearsed, the big doors at the end of the cathedral burst open and a flash of lightning revealed six kids standing there in shining armour, and in the centre, his mortuary sword raised in his hand, his scar lit livid, was Ed.

  The musicians were so surprised they all stopped playing at once, so that there was silence in the cathedral for the first time since Sam had arrived.

  He stood up from his throne and cheered.

  ‘Sit back down,’ Matt hissed.

  ‘Sod off,’ said Sam, throwing off his robes and running down the aisle.

  ‘Stop him!’ Matt yelled, but nobody seemed to know who this command was aimed at. Nathan and his guards were all gathered round Matt near the throne. The kids in chairs just sat there and watched the show.

  ‘Ed!’ Sam ran straight up to Ed and threw his arms round his waist.

  ‘I knew someone would come,’ he said, tears pouring down his face and mingling with the water that was dripping off Ed.

  Ed gave Sam a quick reassuring hug, took the garland of leaves from his head and tossed it away.

  ‘Where’s The Kid?’ he asked, and the thunder crashed like an exploding bomb.

  54

  Shadowman was moving barely faster than a walk. His knee was on fire and the muscles in his right leg were cramping. He wasn’t sure he could go on for much longer.

  But Bluetooth and his gang wouldn’t give up.

  They just kept coming.

  Shadowman had kept well clear of St George and the main body of The Fear, avoiding any road where there were sentinels. He’d made so many switches and turns he was
n’t even really sure where he was any more and the storm had made it black as night, even though he reckoned it couldn’t be much later than about five o’clock. The rain was belting down on to the road, which made it even harder to see anything. He hoped that he was heading roughly south, because the only thought he had in his head was to somehow make it back to the palace before St George got there.

  Every few minutes the pain would get so bad he’d have to stop and check whether Bluetooth was still on his tail. And, every time, there he was with his pals, tramping through the rain. Shadowman would wait just long enough to get his breath back and for the pain to dim slightly – once he’d even risked grabbing some painkillers from his pack – and then he’d reload his crossbow, an agonizing process with his bad knee, and fire a bolt at his pursuers before setting off again, never sure if he was hitting anything. He thought there were perhaps fewer of the strangers on his tail than when he’d started, but it could just be wishful thinking. Whether he’d killed any or not, there were still at least ten of them and, in his weakened state, with his bruised ribs and his wrenched knee and his exhaustion, he couldn’t risk those odds in a hand-to-hand fight, especially as Bluetooth still had the captured machete and a couple of the others also had weapons of some sort.

  Old-school strangers, the dumb sort, the ones who wouldn’t know one end of a sword from the other, even if it was sticking in their guts, would have been easy meat. He could have waited and then taken them on.

  Not this lot, though.

  He stopped and turned, grunting with the effort.

  One of the strangers was pulling ahead, younger and fitter than the others. Hungry. Desperate. Eager to catch up with Shadowman now that he’d stopped again. Shadowman slung the crossbow over his shoulder and slipped his own machete from its sheath.

  Maybe this was the way to do it. If he could string them out, split them up, wait for the fastest ones to break ranks, he might be able to pick them off one by one. They might be cleverer than most strangers, but they weren’t as clever as him.