Baggy Trousers and another man caught Jackson by the elbows and dragged him to the wide circle of smouldering ashes.
‘Okay, shove his face in there,’ Royston pointed at the shimmering embers.
‘No!’ Kate screamed, rushing forward. Royston barely looked as he slapped her to the ground. He nodded to his men and stood behind the half-conscious Jackson, legs apart and gun butt resting against a hip, barrel pointing skywards.
The faces of Baggy Trousers and his accomplice were grim as they drew the kneeling engineer closer to the fire. At its edge, they leaned him over so that he was off balance. They began to force his head downwards.
Culver crept forward, crouching low, using the gradually thinning mist as cover. In one hand he held the small axe he had taken with him the night before. He and Kate had left the others chatting around the fireside, both wanting privacy, a chance to talk together. They had found a fallen tree and snuggled down beside it, Culver spreading the blanket they had brought with them and wrapping it around them when they had settled. The axe was in case any unwelcome visitors of the kind that had black fur and sharp teeth should come upon them during the night. Although it would have afforded little protection, the weapon gave him some comfort.
They had kissed, touched, a mild making of love, for both found themselves still exhausted, their fatigue preventing emotions reaching any peak; but they were content within each other’s arms, happy to talk in low-murmured voices, to explore and to confide. Sleep had not taken too long to overcome them.
Culver had been the first to awake the following morning and had gently untangled himself from Kate’s arms; she had stirred, mumbled something, and he had kissed her damp forehead, telling her to sleep on, it was early. Culver had walked off to relieve himself, carrying the axe as a precaution; now that it was daylight he was more cautious of rabid animals than of rats.
Near the centre of the park he had found a partly-demolished shelter. Ridiculously modest, he had stepped inside and was unzipping his jeans when the stench hit him. He took a step back in disgust and his foot slipped on something wet. His stomach heaved when he searched the gloom beneath him.
The people might have taken shelter just before the bombs had dropped – it had been around lunchtime and the park would have been crowded – or they might have crawled and staggered there afterwards. The corpses, what was left of them, were in one stagnant heap, spreading over the floor like a bulky, rumpled carpet. Yet the bodies were alive with movement. Greyish-white movement.
The maggots must have consumed most of the flesh, yet still they wriggled among the bones, forming glistening patterns in their well-ordered, almost ritual quest for sustenance.
He fled from the shelter, holding his mouth as though unwilling to further defile their mausoleum with his own vomit. The sickness poured from him in gut-wrenching spurts. And even when his stomach was empty, the muscles there still contracted painfully, expelling empty air as if purging more than just bile from his body. It was a long time before he was able to stagger away and find another place to relieve himself.
The park itself was littered with debris blown into it from surrounding buildings and, even though it was in a sheltered position, no tree, bush, or blade of grass had been left unscathed. He avoided swarms of gross insects, knowing they bred among corpses. The mist was rising more rapidly, for the ground and ruins were becoming dry despite the weeks of heavy rainfall. Culver shakily made his way back to the fallen tree he and Kate had nestled beneath.
He was surprised to find her gone and assumed she had wandered back to the others around the campfire, thinking he had done the same. Following on, and pondering over their plan for the day (in an effort to shut the crawling tomb from his mind), Culver heard the voices before catching sight of the intruders. Something in their tone warned him that they were not friendly.
Culver crouched low, the mist still thick enough to conceal him unless he got too close. He saw them and tension filled him, easily dismissing the earlier memory. He watched as the tall black man, garbed in a ridiculous see-through raincoat, touched Kate, and Culver’s hand clenched tight around the axe. Jackson sprang at the man when he held a knife against Kate’s cheek, sending him to the ground, and then was himself attacked by two others.
The black stranger shouted something and Jackson was dragged towards the ashes of the fire. The girl had been knocked down and her assailant had turned his back towards him before Culver realized what was about to happen.
Jackson’s face was only inches away from the smouldering embers when anger – more than just anger: it was a ferocity that filled every extremity of his body and sent seething pulses through his head – spilled from Culver in a silent scream, making his whole body tremble, his lips baring to reveal clenched teeth, a grimace of sheer hatred. Hadn’t they been through enough without their own kind, survivors like themselves, subjecting them to this perverse treatment? Hadn’t the destruction taught them anything? Had the madness only bred fresh madness? He restrained the cry and silently ran forward.
Culver was among them before they were even aware of his approach; the tall black man still had his back to him.
At last releasing the cry, Culver swung the axe in a sideways arc and the metal head cut deep into the raincoated man’s spine, severing it completely. He had to tug hard to pull the axe free.
Royston screamed, a high, animal sound, his arms splaying outwards, throwing the weapons. He collapsed immediately and lay prone on the ground, unable to move, able only to die. His hands and feet twitched convulsively and a whining came from his scabbed lips.
Culver did not linger; his next target was one of the men holding Jackson over the ashes, a man who wore a red handkerchief around his forehead. The edge of the axe caught him beneath the chin, snapping his head upwards, toppling him onto the hot embers. Culver felt something thwack against his leather jacket and saw the other man pointing a gun at him. It occurred to him in an instant that he had been shot, yet there had been no gunfire and no pain. He swung the axe again; the gun fell as the intruder who had brandished it clutched a fractured wrist.
Jackson fell face forward into the ashes and rolled over screaming, embers glowing in his dark skin.
Culver could not help him: there were too many of the enemy to contend with. He ducked as a rifle aimed at him, feeling a stinging along his cheek. The man with the rifle rushed him, using the weapon as a club.
Fairbank took advantage of the distraction. He grabbed the axe still lying nearby, bringing the blunt end up into the stomach of one of his guards. The other received the sharp end across the bridge of his nose.
The fat man holding Dene released the pellet from the air-pistol into the engineer’s temple. Dene sank to his knees, hands clasping at the wound. He slumped face forward to the ground and lay there silent and still. The fat man hastily snapped open the weapon and pushed in another pellet.
Ellison attempted to run from the three men coming towards him. They easily caught him and he lashed out with fists and feet, but quickly succumbed to their concerted assault.
Catching sight of the man rushing towards Culver, Dealey threw his arms around the passing legs. The would-be assailant fell heavily and Culver stepped forward and brought a foot down hard against the back of his head. Something crunched and he hoped it was the man’s nose; better still, his neck. He quickly scanned the chaos, the axe poised before him to ward off further attack.
Kate was dragging Jackson out of the fire, slapping burning embers from his face. Fairbank had just hacked at the leg of a fat man who had been waving an air-pistol in the air, his target undecided. The gun went off, the phut heard over the screams of the women and the excited barking of the dogs; a gusher of blood had erupted from his thigh. The injured man went down – on one leg, whimpering as he tried to stem the flow. Three other men and women stared with uncertain looks; the attack on them had been so swift and so devastating that they were perplexed. And now they, too, were afraid.
It was the blonde woman with the blue silk scarf and long skirt who broke the deadlock: with a screeching roar, she threw herself at Culver. Jagged fingernails tore at his face, only his up-flung arm protecting his eyes from serious injury. They went down in a struggling heap, Culver’s back sending up a shower of ashes.
The three men advanced, spurred on by the woman’s fury. Fairbank was suddenly before them, brandishing his axe, slapping the metal head against the palm of his hand, challenging them to come closer. They hesitated, lifting their own weapons, an iron bar, a pickaxe handle, and a knife. Their progress was more cautious.
Culver brought a knee up hard between the woman’s legs, sending her over him. She writhed on the other side of the ashes, sucking in air, but already scrambling to get back at him. Culver pushed himself up, embers falling from his leather jacket, and half turned to meet the attack. Her screwed-up face was only a foot away and, still unbalanced, he struck his fist into it, following through and rolling clear of the heat. His knuckles were bloody when he regained his feet.
He saw Fairbank ward off an iron bar with the axe. Another man was about to bring a stout piece of wood down on the engineer’s unprotected head. Culver took two paces and leapt, twisting his body so that it struck the assailant sideways on. They fell together and Culver was on his feet instantly; his boot caught the prone man on the chin. A third, knife-wielding, man backed away, reluctant to become involved. The two coloured girls were clinging to each other and shrieking, keeping well clear of the fight. Culver turned to help Fairbank and saw that the man with the iron bar had also disengaged from the fray for the moment. Fairbank’s smile was uninviting.
Culver joined him and said quietly, ‘We’d better get away from here while we can.’
‘That’s a fact,’ Fairbank replied.
They quickly observed the plight of their companions; Ellison appeared to be in the worst trouble.
‘Dealey, help Kate,’ Culver ordered. ‘Start running, towards the river. You know where to go.’
Dealey rose and stumbled towards Kate, who was kneeling beside Jackson, still brushing ash from his face. The three men beating Ellison were caught unawares as Culver and Fairbank laid into them. Two went down immediately, although not seriously hurt; the third staggered back as Fairbank struck him with his left fist. Culver and Fairbank scooped up Ellison and dragged him after their retreating companions.
‘Dene!’ Fairbank shouted.
Culver glanced around and found the prostrate body of the young engineer. ‘Keep going, I’ll check him out.’
Fairbank, axe raised in his right hand, his left supporting Ellison, staggered away while the pilot hurried over to Dene’s limp form. He knelt and turned the engineer over onto his side. Death was now familiar enough to be easily recognized.
Footsteps approached and he looked up to see the assailant with the iron bar bearing down on him. He threw the axe and it struck the man in the chest, although not blade-first; the impetus, however, was enough to bring a halt to the attack. The iron bar fell to the ground as the man clutched his chest, his legs beginning to buckle.
Culver was up and running again, racing through the ravaged park and wishing the mist had not thinned out so much; its cover would have been welcome. He caught up with the others and relieved Kate of the severely burnt maintenance engineer, who was groaning aloud. Dealey was supporting Jackson on the other side. They moved as quickly as possible, a stumbling, awkward run, passing the maggot-filled tomb Culver had come upon earlier, skirting around empty tennis courts, the wire fencing surrounding them strangely untouched by the blasts.
Jackson tripped, went down, almost dragged Culver and Dealey with him.
‘Keep going!’ Culver yelled at the others, waving Kate away. ‘They’ll be coming after us!’
‘We must hide,’ Dealey said as they lifted Jackson to his feet.
‘Soon as we put some distance between us,’ Culver told him.
Rubble spilled down from varying heights to meet the edge of the park and they found themselves climbing, choosing the lower valleys, uneven passes in the debris. Culver noticed that one of Jackson’s eyes was completely closed and a large part of his face had been burned raw; there were darker lumps enmeshed in his skin, pieces of charcoal that had seared their way through to the flesh beneath and become affixed there. His left shoulder was covered in blood. At the top of a rise, Culver turned to see if they really were being followed. Running figures were just visible in the swirling mist. He dropped into the ravine below, helping Jackson, aware that he had been seen: one of the figures had stopped and pointed at him.
Another sight had been engrained on his mind: the fallen city, just mounds of broken earth and shorn buildings rising above the low-lying, drifting mist, like clipped mountains above clouds.
For Kate and Alex Dealey, it was the clearest view of the destroyed capital they had yet had, and for the first time the enormity of what had happened struck them like a physical blow. Dazed, and more deeply disturbed than ever before, they staggered on through the hollows and dips, over the ridges and huge concrete outcrops. The heat made their exertions exhausting, their bodies soon becoming soaked with perspiration. Even the dust they stirred up in their flight contrived to choke and slow them. Glass fragments shimmered in the wreckage like glittering diamonds caught in the sun’s rays, the wispy vapours unable to hold back the light completely.
Culver’s bitten ankle was hurting like hell and he knew it was not sweat seeping through the bandage and sock. At one stage he put a hand to the stinging in his cheek and his fingers came away bloody. He knew he had sustained other injuries in the struggle, but he would discover what they were later – if there was a later for any of them.
Kate cried out when she missed her footing, but hobbled on, too afraid even to look back.
The valley ahead widened out and Culver knew they must be in what was once a broad thoroughfare leading to the Aldwych; beyond that was Waterloo Bridge and the river. Fairly close to that was the only place he felt they could be safe.
But at this rate, he knew they were not going to make it.
24
‘In here!’
Culver pointed at the opening, a hole created by a large concrete slab leaning crazily against a shop-front. Much of the building above the shop had slid down the chunk of concrete and around its sides; the gap was formed between the slab and a landslide of rubble. Culver and Dealey helped Jackson, who was still moaning with pain, while Fairbank held on to Ellison, whose steps were still unsteady after the beating he had taken.
They made for the opening as Culver quickly scanned the landscape behind. He couldn’t see their pursuers, but he could hear them: a pack of screaming banshees, howling for blood. Revenge was all they had, their only motivation; that and survival.
Dealey hesitated at the entrance. ‘It isn’t safe in here. The whole structure is loose, unstable.’
Culver gave him a shove. ‘Take Jackson, follow the others. Waste one more second and the mob’ll see us.’
Dealey reluctantly did as instructed, bearing the whole of the black engineer’s weight, both of them crouching to get through the gap. The pilot backed his way in, eyes on the route behind them. He ducked from view when the first head came into sight over a small crest of debris, praying he hadn’t been observed. They had been lucky earlier, his attack taking the intruders by surprise and effective only because of that surprise. This time these people were not out to steal or torment or question: they were out to kill.
Dust sifted down, blinding him for a moment. He brushed it away, blinking rapidly. Something creaked above him, then concrete ground against concrete. Dealey was right: the whole place was ready to collapse.
He moved further in, the figures of his companions barely visible in the dim light. Something shifted around them. The groans of a dying building. No, the reflex spasms of a building already dead. Pounding rain had worked on the remains over the weeks, weakening it further, changing broken concrete into pulpy
mush. He could hear water dripping all around.
Voices from outside. Culver and the others froze, listening. Shouts, angry and something more. Excited. Eager for the chase. A new sport born out of the chaos. The human hunt.
‘Keep still!’ he hissed and they, the hunted, did not move.
Dealey breathed in dust and putridity and wondered what lay about them in the darkness. He squinted his eyes, peering into the gloom, knowing they were inside a shop for beyond the opening they had stepped over a short sill, the edge of which must have been a display window. In the distance, far at the back of the shop, he could see a glimmer of light. Another opening, a means of escape, at least. He could just make out broken display racks and the littered floor beneath them. Ah, a bookshop. He knew the one, had browsed through it in . . . in better times. What value the written word now?
Jackson groaned beside him and Dealey could feel a new wetness sinking into his own clothing, a sticky flowing that had nothing to do with his own body damp. The engineer was bleeding over him. He shifted, repulsed by the seepage, and Jackson groaned aloud. Frightened the sounds could be heard outside, Dealey clamped a hand to the injured man’s mouth. Jackson’s semi-closed eyes opened wide with the sudden sharp increase of pain in his charred lips; he screamed against the darkness and pushed against whoever was trying to stifle him. He was free and terribly afraid. There were moving shadows all around, hands reaching for him, fingers touching his burnt skin. He screamed again, and tried to escape. Something tried to hold him; he knocked it away. He had to get out. There was a light, an opening. He had to get through it. There were rats down in the shelter! Large black rats! Rats that could tear a man to pieces! He had to get out!
Culver lunged at the distraught engineer, knowing it was already too late, that those outside could not have failed to have heard. Mad with pain and panic, Jackson threw the pilot to one side, intent only on reaching the source of light, desperate to escape the dark hole in the ground where he could smell the burning of his own flesh and hear the screeching and scuffling of night creatures. He staggered towards the triangle of light, slipping on objects scattered on the floor, almost falling over more bulky shapes lying in the dust.