‘What is it?’ said Ollie. ‘What’s changed?’
Bill pointed and Ollie looked out over the park to the west, not trusting his eyes. He rubbed his aching temples, looked again.
He wasn’t going nuts. He wasn’t imagining things. There was a line of cars advancing across the park, pickup trucks with troops in the back, other kids riding horses. He saw a boy and a girl dressed in gold on big white chargers.
At the front was a blue people carrier. Could it be the one that Ed had left in? Ollie watched as it stopped and the doors slid open.
Yes. It was Ed. With Kyle and Lewis and Brooke and Ebenezer. Trinity as well. And Ella with a boy who had a horribly scarred face. Ed was already shouting commands. Kids were leaping down from the trucks. Others were firing arrows, rifles.
Ollie laughed.
‘It’s Ed,’ he shouted. ‘The cavalry’s arrived. It’s Ed! We’re gonna do this, Jordan. We’re gonna beat St George.’
He looked around wildly, trying to see if any of Jordan’s trumpeters were alive. Saw a huddle of them hiding among some wheelie bins at the rear of the LookOut.
‘Up here!’ he screamed. ‘Get up here and bring your trumpets.’
He turned to Jordan. ‘We need to break out of this camp,’ he said. ‘Lead us out of here so we can join up with Ed.’
Jordan nodded, started giving orders to the trumpeters who were scrambling up to join them. Soon their horns were blaring, giving hope to all the kids who were fighting in small knots across the park. Ollie could see Matt’s banners and a clump of green kids in the middle. Further away, Will and Hayden with a group of Tower kids, trapped among some trees; in another circle, to the right, were Jackson, Achilleus and Ryan.
Ollie was waving his arms and yelling, though there was no way they could hear him.
‘Don’t give up! Ed’s back. Join together.’
He shook Jordan.
‘Tell the trumpeters,’ he said. ‘Tell them that we all need to join together.’
‘I’ve told ’em, soldier,’ said Jordan. ‘It’s happening. I’ve given the signals. So let’s go.’
Ollie glanced at Ed’s troops who were slowly advancing. Archers firing flat and low, javelin and spear throwers hurling their weapons into the retreating sickos; those with guns taking careful aim, experienced fighters charging in.
Ollie jumped down from the platform, flushed with a new energy and hope. Jordan’s ragged troops were starting to form a line. Jordan came down and forced some sense of order and discipline into the weary mob.
And then they were moving, across the camp, cutting down any sickos who tried to stop them, out through the gap between the barricades, out into the main body of St George’s army.
Jackson had sensed the change as well. Two changes. First a loosening of discipline among the already wild sickos and now a loss of fight. As if they knew they were beaten. For the first time they were retreating.
‘This is new,’ she said and Achilleus grunted.
They heard the trumpets sounding and Jackson tried to remember what all the different commands meant.
‘I think we need to try and join up with the rest of the army,’ she said as something clicked into place in her exhausted brain. ‘A last rally.’
‘Come on then,’ said Achilleus. He was a fierce sight, caked with blood, some dark and drying, some fresh and bright. She looked down at herself. Knew she must look the same. Ryan’s leather was black with gore, ripped in patches, the bits of fur he wore matted and dripping.
‘Let’s move it,’ he said and the three of them were shouting commands, forming their kids into a tighter unit. There were maybe a third of them left from when they’d started. Nearly all of Nicola’s kids were dead. The last to die had been Bozo, still wearing his policeman’s helmet. But the new arrivals from the museum hadn’t done much better. Jackson had seen Boggle stabbed through the heart as he’d tried to save a friend from a group of young mothers.
Maybe if they could link up with other fighters the rest of them had a chance of surviving this.
They started to push their way across the slippery grass, keeping the barricades on their left as protection, their strongest fighters on the right to keep the sickos back, aiming towards the few remaining green banners of Matt’s group in the middle of the park. On the way they picked up smaller, isolated groups of fighting kids, swelling their numbers as they trudged on. It wasn’t a question of fighting. All they could do was push and shove and smash sickos out of their way.
They were advancing, though, slowly and agonizingly. Protecting each other. Jackson found herself crushed up against Achilleus, struggling to breathe as her chest and lungs were squeezed by the crush of bodies.
‘Don’t give up, girl,’ he said.
‘Not planning to, boy,’ she replied.
Achilleus rammed his spear point into a father’s mouth and he dropped out of their way.
But they were stuck now, too many bodies in front of them.
‘This way!’ It was Shadowman, off to their right. He had taken charge of a smaller group and they’d cut a path towards Matt’s kids.
‘Push right!’ Jackson yelled. ‘Go right!’
Their unit wheeled, pulling round the dense knot of sickos who’d been blocking their path. Moved quicker, Shadowman falling in beside her and Achilleus. And then Jackson looked up. She could see a banner fluttering in the breeze above their heads.
They’d made it to Matt. The pressure was relieved as the two groups joined together and filled out into a circle. There was Matt, surrounded by the last shattered survivors from St Paul’s. They were singing and Matt was yelling something incoherent about angels that Jackson couldn’t understand at all.
‘Together,’ Jackson ordered them. ‘Stay together. We’re moving on. We have to link up with the main army.’
With the St Paul’s kids joining their force, they were able to push on faster, the sickos moving away from them. Jackson had even joined in the singing, wordlessly, just bellowing out a noise, bellowing out the joy of still being alive.
They walked, side by side, they speeded up, they broke into a run, they charged past sickos, swatting at them as they went, and at last they met Jordan’s forces who were erupting from the encampment. Now they were one army. And Jordan was taking charge. Leading them on westwards.
They formed into a massive fighting unit with Jordan, Achilleus, Ryan, Jackson, Maxie, Blue and Ollie at the front. Jackson had no idea where exactly they were heading or why. She was just happy to follow Jordan. He seemed to have a plan.
The sickos had lost all discipline now. They even appeared to have lost the will to fight. They were hurrying away from Jordan’s force. But there was more fighting up ahead. The sickos were running on to the weapons of another unit.
And then Jackson saw what was happening. Reinforcements had arrived. Ed had returned. Jordan was linking his forces up with his.
And what forces! Jordan could see cars and vans, trucks, kids on horses with lances, archers, kids with guns …
‘Halle-bloody-lujah!’ Jackson shouted, and lunged at a mother who came close, smashing her spear into the sicko’s face, destroying her nose and upper jaw.
Hallelujah. Lord knows where Ed had found his own army, but thank God he had.
Jordan’s troops surged in and linked up with them, and they turned as one and attacked. Now was the time to kill. To take their revenge. There was no stopping the kids now. Jackson knew they would be merciless, utterly merciless, in flattening the disorderly remains of St George’s army.
A war cry of triumph erupted along the lines, as steadily they drove forward, cutting, slicing, stabbing, pushing, crushing skulls with clubs, splitting bones with sword and axe.
Destroying the threat that had terrified them for the last year. Preyed on them. Ruined their lives.
Jackson spotted Ed, his scarred face cold and terrifying, moving like a machine, Kyle at his side with a look of intense joy on his face.
Th
ey were going to win.
76
It had been one of the tensest few hours that Ed could remember. Ironic, really, as nothing had actually happened – there had been no threat, no sign of any sickos, no danger on the road until they’d come rumbling into Hyde Park.
But the journey had still seemed to take forever. Made almost unbearable by the fact that he’d had no idea what to expect when he got here. Trinity had picked up the message from the Twisted Kids, blurted it out – ‘The boy was dead, the kids need your help, hurry before it’s too late …’
Too late for what? Ed had some of the toughest fighters he’d ever met with him. The toughest and best equipped. They had vehicles, which meant they could travel fast. But not fast enough. What if they were too late? Would the day end in blood and disappointment?
And then when they’d got here, seeing the park full of so many sickos, living and dead, for a moment Ed had been afraid, wondering what they could do. But then the battle fury had come on him.
He had known what he could do.
This was his chance to crush them all. To take the battle to the sickos for a change. To tip the balance. He didn’t care about himself. Didn’t care whether he lived or died. He’d become an animal. Killing without thinking. How could he ever go back to being a normal boy? He had taken death into his heart. It would never leave. He was a weapon.
And he would kill. For all those who still lived. Who deserved a future.
He was pressing forward, his mortuary sword doing its deadly work, for Sam and Ella. For DogNut and Macca and Adele. For Jack and Bam and all his friends from Rowhurst. This was going to be their day.
His sword came crashing down, cutting through a father’s neck, and on down through his shoulder and out at his armpit, cutting his body in two. And Kyle was with him, his axe crushing a mother’s skull. Now Ed drove his sword forward into a father’s belly, twisted, pulled it out, kicked him to the ground. Trampled over the body and moved on.
And on. He would go on until every last sicko was killed.
77
His people were dying. They were going down all around him. The voices in his head falling silent. His great swarm, this army that he’d put together, was dying. He howled with rage. This was not how it was meant to end. He was supposed to win. He was St George. He was the hero. He was supposed to kill the dragon. He wouldn’t give up. Not yet. He would tear the heart out of the living. Even if he was the only one left, he would eat the children. He would devour them. The children that had caused all this trouble.
He punched his way to the front, shoving his people out of the way, and came to a small group of children who were cut off under some trees, tore into them, battering them with his bare hands, and picked up an axe.
Yes. A cleaver. He was a butcher. And he would butcher these bastards. He tried it, swinging at a girl, cutting her head half off. He smiled. The voices in his head had properly gone now. All of them. The children who’d been screaming at him had shut up too.
Everything was clear and bright. He thundered on, his great legs stamping at the ground.
I will kill them, he thought. This isn’t over.
Ed looked along the line. They were marching in step – Ebenezer, Kyle, Malik, Maxie, Blue, Jackson, Achilleus, Ryan, Lewis, Ollie, Jordan … and there was Shadowman, joining on the end, his grey cloak flapping behind him.
Nothing could stop them. Nothing could defeat them. They were a team. Working together. Time seemed to slow. Ed was acutely aware of everything around him – the birds circling in the sky, the trees, the sickos crumbling before them.
The birds circling. The earth turning. Circling the sun. The planets and stars turning in the sky.
Such a long year it had been. Leaving Rowhurst on the coach. Greg driving. Greg the butcher. Greg who had killed Jack and Bam … Driving into London, joining up with Jordan and his guys at the Imperial War Museum. Helping Jack get home. Watching him and Bam die. And then the fire. It had swept through south London, forcing them all northwards. The battle at the bridge, the mad scramble to get on the boat, drifting down the Thames to the Tower of London. The months there, learning how to get from one day to the next. Turning, turning, turning. Raiding, scavenging, growing food, purifying water. The daily fight for survival. Turning, turning, turning.
Such a long year.
He tried to look ahead.
After this battle would there be anything left? Nothing he could see. Blackness. No, not even blackness. Whatever the world had been like before he was born and after he was dead. Nothing. Not existing.
All that mattered now was this moment. Making it count.
And then Ed saw him.
Breaking out of the mass of sickos. A red cross on a white vest. Splattered with gore. A bloody cleaver in his hand.
There was no mistaking that huge head. That face. Greg.
Greg the butcher. Greg who had thought the disease couldn’t get him. Greg who had killed Ed’s best friends. Greg who had given him his scar. Greg who had ruined him.
Could it really be him?
Could Greg really be St George?
Ed pushed his way over to Shadowman, smashing his sword sideways at a father without even registering he’d done it.
‘Is that him?’ he said.
‘That’s St George,’ said Shadowman, and Ed gave a harsh bark of anger.
He’d thought he’d never see Greg again. Thought he must have died months ago. It had never occurred to him for one moment that the leader of this army could be his own enemy.
‘This one’s mine,’ he said, pushing ahead of the others. ‘Leave him.’
And, as the rest of the line of heroes hammered into Greg’s army, Ed strode towards their leader.
He was alone with St George who was wearing Liam’s glasses. His own son, who he’d suffocated to death on the coach, trying to protect him. Ed had forgotten what a brute of a creature he was. His thick legs sticking out of baggy shorts. His head bald and covered in boils. His arms like joints of meat.
Ed went to him, lifted his sword, swung it. Greg twisted and caught the blade on his cleaver, deflecting it. Luck? Or skill? Didn’t make any difference, Ed had to try again. This time he swung low, but a mother came in from the side and got in the way of the blow, taking it herself. The blade struck her deep and embedded itself in her hip bone. Ed could feel it stuck fast. He jerked it and tugged at it, but it wouldn’t come loose. The mother went down, taking the sword with her. Ed glanced round just in time to see Greg coming at him, his cleaver swinging down from above his head. Ed threw himself forward over the mother’s body, letting go of his sword and flattening himself on the ground which had been churned up into a foul, sticky mixture of blood and mud and spilt guts. He rolled to the side as Greg swung again.
He was just able to get up and he stumbled head first into a group of sickos. He realized now that he was cut off from the others. Sickos had come in from all around and formed a protective circle round their leader. Ed felt hands clawing at him. He bit a rotten finger that probed his mouth. Something struck him hard on the side of the head and, with ears ringing, he powered up, straightening his legs and crashing the top of his skull into a father’s jaw. He then turned and barged his way through the ever-thickening crowd of sickos, trying to find open ground, slipping and sliding in the mud.
He had to get his sword. It was his only hope.
Greg was snarling and hissing, trying to get to Ed, cutting down any sickos that got between them. Ed saw the mother lying face down, his sword handle pointing up at the sky, the point stuck in the ground, the side of the blade jammed in her hip. He ducked under another wild swing from Greg and, as Greg was turned away, off balance, Ed spun round at him and smashed an elbow into his face, knocking him back. Greg staggered on stiff legs, trying to stay upright, and then shook his head. He glared at Ed. The sickos fell back, clearing a path between the two of them. Ed was bleeding from where he’d been hit in the head. The blood was getting into his eye, blinding
him. He wiped it away, but only succeeded in smearing mud across both eyes. He spat and swore, blinking away gritty tears.
Greg rolled his great fat head on his neck, closed his eyes and squeezed his lips together, like someone enjoying a delicious mouthful of food. A juicy, bloody steak …
And then he opened his eyes and locked them on Ed, started advancing, the cleaver swishing from side to side.
Ed put his hand to the sword hilt and gripped as tight as he could, simultaneously pulling it and kicking at the mother’s body, trying to break the bones and loosen their grip on the steel.
His eyes stayed fixed on Greg.
And Greg was running.
He came at Ed, roaring, swinging his cleaver, his powerful legs working like pistons. A mad bull.
Ed stood there. Facing him. His chest exposed. Kicking, tugging, kicking.
He felt something give. A bone snap.
Greg was on him, cleaver raised in triumph, ready to bring it crashing down.
Ed stepped aside to the left, twisted his whole upper body round with a burst of power, transferring the energy to his arm, and the sword came loose, and up, and the blade sliced clean through Greg’s fat neck, sending his head flying.
It was done.
‘Yes!’ Shadowman had broken through the ring of sickos moments before Ed killed St George, and watching his great head spring loose from his body made Shadowman shout with joy.
The other kids came in behind Shadowman, but already it was clear that the battle was over. In cutting off St George’s head, Ed had cut off the head of the army. The sickos fell into utter disorder and confusion and the army of children swept over them.
‘Don’t leave a single one alive,’ Jordan shouted. ‘We kill them now. And we stop the disease.’
Shadowman held back. He wasn’t needed any more. He watched Ed sit on the grass and put down his sword. The huge, heavy mortuary sword he’d found at the Tower of London. Very few kids would have been able to use that weapon.