The Fallen

by Charlie Higson

  ‘OK,’ Blue shouted. ‘It’s pretty clear there’s nothing down here. We got to stop getting all jumpy over every little thing. We need to get on quick, find the gear and get gone.’

  ‘I think you’d better look at this.’

  Everyone turned to Ollie. He’d been to the end of the corridor to check out what lay ahead.

  ‘What is it?’ said Blue.

  ‘Come see.’

  There was another set of doors, with words scrawled on them, painted with what looked like blood. Dark red, sloppy and dripping.

  The kids read the words, their torch beams crawling over them. Not knowing what to think.

  Wev’e got what your after. If you really want it you have to porve it. So come and gettit if you think you can. We are waiting 4 you.

  41

  Why were they taking so long down there? How far could it be to the warehouse? Why weren’t they back yet?

  The truth was Mick had no idea how long they’d been gone. He didn’t have a watch. Hardly anyone wore a watch these days, because there was no way of setting them to the real time. Pick any three clocks at random and you could bet they’d all be showing different times. Or, most likely, stopped. In fact Mick had never worn a watch. Not even in the old days. His uncle had given him one for his birthday once, but he’d never even tried it on. What was the point when you had a phone? But now, without any electricity, the phones didn’t work any more, and the clocks all showed different times, or sat frozen at the point when the juice had dried up.

  So he could only guess at how long the others had been gone. It could have been five minutes; it could have been half an hour. He was getting twitchy. Couldn’t stop thinking about the cut on his arm. About germs and bacteria and Ant, nearly dying in his hospital bed …

  He looked at his three friends, Brandon, Jake and Kamahl. Boys he’d known for years, had fought alongside, his team. Boys who looked up to him. Trusted him to be there for them. They were sitting on a cluster of benches chatting casually to each other. He called over to them.

  ‘Is it hot in here?’

  Jake shrugged.

  ‘You’re not hot?’

  ‘I’m all right,’ said Kamahl.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Mick. ‘It’s not hot, is it?’

  ‘Nah.’

  He started to drum a rhythm on his thighs, slapping them. He’d show he wasn’t scared of any stupid bacteria. He’d drum them out of there.

  Slappity-slap-bang, slappity-slap-bang.

  The funny thing was … No, not funny, the opposite of funny, not at all funny. Ironic really. A real kick in the teeth from God, to be fair. It was while they were in hospital, sat round Ant’s bed, with the bedside TV on, that the first report came on the news about some weird new illness that had broken out in the East End, over Hackney way. The whole family watched it, because it was about illness, and they were obsessed with illness right then. The newsreader said the symptoms were similar to bubonic plague – fever and swellings. Not so different to what Ant was going through. Though he didn’t have any swellings.

  God, it happened quick after that.

  Ant never made it out of hospital. Poor little bastard. All that work the doctors had done. All those drugs. All that worry. All for nothing. By the time Ant was well enough to get up and walk about, the disease was slicing through London. The hospital was locked down, to try and stop the spread. Nobody allowed in or out. Mick was stuck at home trying to cope. His mum got it early. Killed his dad. The police took her away. Mick hadn’t known what to do. It all went crazy. He tried to get back to the hospital and rescue Ant.

  That was the worst part.

  He’d got in OK. The security guards were all sick. And then inside. Like something out of a horror film. Sick people, dead people, blood and pus and excrement everywhere. He’d worked his way back to the ward, trying to find Ant. It was hell. The doctors and the nurses all had the sickness, the patients, everyone. They were killing each other. Mick knew Ant couldn’t have survived, but he never found his body. He was glad of that in a way.

  It was in the Whittington, scared and angry and desperate, that he’d killed his first grown-up. A fat nurse. He pushed her down some stairs. Didn’t mind that at all. It had been a release for him. Didn’t get scared in a fight. But he didn’t like hospitals. Didn’t like nurses. Didn’t like doctors.

  A movement caught his eye and he turned to see a dark, squirming shape outside. The others had spotted it too. Brandon stood up.

  ‘Look at that.’

  Big Mick couldn’t work out what it was. He’d spooked himself so badly he was getting confused. The tinted windows didn’t help, all crusted with dirt and dust. It looked like there was one big shapeless thing out there, writhing against the glass. Forming, breaking and reforming, like something under a microscope. Liquid. Shape-shifting. Then he saw that it had eyes, and teeth, and legs, legs all over the place. Hundreds of legs.

  Not possible.

  Not freaking possible.

  42

  ‘How many kids did we see this morning?’

  Justin looked at his notes. ‘Thirty-two.’

  Maxie sighed. It had felt like a lot more than that. A whole lot more. And still no closer to figuring out who the traitor was. A weird word that, like something out of a history book.

  She was up in the staff canteen at the museum with Maeve and Justin and Brooke. Robbie had gone to lie down in the sick-bay. Worn out. Maxie felt tired too, almost more tired than when she was out on the streets doing stuff. She hadn’t had to think this hard, really concentrate, in a long time. She could do with a lie-down.

  She stared at her food. Tiny portions, but she was used to that.

  ‘Who have we got left?’

  ‘It’s mostly smaller kids now,’ said Justin. ‘Made sense to start with the older ones, the ones more likely to be able to do something like that.’

  ‘Unless it was a little kid mucking about,’ said Maxie, ‘and they opened a door by mistake, you know, like they were playing a game or something.’

  ‘It’s possible, I suppose,’ said Justin. ‘But they’d have had to have got the keys off one of the older kids.’

  ‘And we’ve spoken to all the kids who had keys?’

  ‘Yep, all except for Jamie, who was killed, and Paul Channing.’

  ‘Who’s missing?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘So it’s most likely that whoever got the keys got them off one of those two?’

  ‘I suppose so, yeah. That makes sense.’

  Maxie thought about this for a bit. She was pushing the last forkful of rice around her plate, making it last, holding off eating it, as it would mean there was nothing more.

  ‘And so far nobody really remembers seeing this Paul guy all evening?’ she asked, looking up at Justin.

  ‘No. But he’d been keeping pretty much to himself since his sister got killed. He was pretty depressed.’

  ‘He went a bit nuts actually,’ said Brooke.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘He, like, totally flipped out,’ said Brooke. ‘Big time. Started cussing everyone about his sister, saying we didn’t, like, care. He had a knife. Waving it about. Don’t think he’d have shanked anyone, though.’

  Maxie put her fork down with a clatter and gave a hard stare, first to Brooke then to Justin.

  ‘Why are you only just now telling me this?’

  ‘Only just remembered about it,’ said Brooke. ‘With all else that’s been going on.’

  ‘I’d forgotten about that as well,’ said Justin. ‘Do you think it means something?’

  ‘Of course it means something, you idiots,’ said Maxie. ‘It means that he had a motive.’

  ‘Edge up, girl,’ said Brooke. ‘It was all just breeze. We never had nothing to do with his sister getting killed.’

  ‘In his mind we did,’ said Justin. ‘He blamed us somehow.’

  ‘He had keys, yeah?’ said Maxie. ‘To the lower-level doors?’

  ‘Y
es.’

  ‘And now he’s disappeared?’

  ‘We assumed the sickos had got him.’

  ‘Well, there’s your bloody traitor,’ said Maxie. ‘It’s obvious.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Justin wouldn’t catch Maxie’s eye.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ said Maxie, trying not to lose her temper. ‘He let them out and then ran off.’

  ‘I suppose it’s possible,’ said Justin. ‘He’d been ill. Was definitely a little screwed up. But I still think we should keep interviewing everyone.’

  ‘We ask them all about Paul, though,’ said Maxie. ‘Maybe someone saw him, one of the little ones.’

  ‘OK …’

  Maxie scooped up the rice, shoved it in her mouth. Wondered what Blue was doing right now. Wanted him to be here. This was too deep for her; she couldn’t carry it alone. She wished she’d gone with him. Would have preferred to take her chances on the streets than sit it out here.

  She swallowed the rice without tasting it.

  43

  Blue wasn’t going to show it, but he was all churned up. His stomach was gurgling, bubbling with acid. It was nervousness more than fear. Wouldn’t take much to tip him over, though. He was only just holding it together. He had a feeling of being off balance, not sure what to do.

  Mustn’t let anyone see that.

  He needed them all to believe in him.

  It had taken a year to get sorted back home in Holloway. People forgot just how crazy it had been back in the day, when it had all kicked off. How nobody had been in charge, but eventually some leaders had stood up, taken over, and one by one they’d all been killed, till there was only Blue left. Last man standing. It was luck more than anything. He knew that. By then he’d learnt to walk the walk. To put on his armour. Not let the mask slip. Stone cold.

  Nobody remembered that at the beginning he’d been as scared as all the rest, how he’d taken over the crew because no one else wanted the job. He’d been a good leader, though. Had grown into it. He knew his territory, his ends. Knew where was safe, where not to go, where to find food, where there were places of safety. Knew how to survive. Leaving Morrisons and the old familiarity of Holloway had been tough. And ever since then he’d been making it up as he went along. Trying to give the impression he was on top of things. Trying to pretend he had some idea what he was doing.

  And now this. Down here in the dark in this strange place. He had no previous experience of anything like this. Didn’t know how to go ahead. Hated the unknown. They’d blundered into a whole heap of weird voodoo.

  But there was something else.

  He felt alone in a way he hadn’t known for a long while. He’d got used to Big Mick being right next to him, whatever happened, wherever they were. Why had he let Mick stay up top? Should have been one of the others. He felt naked and unprotected.

  And then there was Maxie.

  God, he wished she was here. She had a cool head on her. He needed that support. Mad to think she’d been so close to him all that time. Just down the road, but they’d never spoken. Never even met. And now it had all happened so quickly. He’d found her and, next thing he knew, here he was, alone and missing her. If he could only get this done he could get back to her.

  But without her here he had to do it all by himself.

  None of this lot were much use. Einstein didn’t have a clue about this sort of thing. OK, so Achilleus knew how to handle himself all right, but he kept well clear when it came to making decisions. That left Ollie. He was smart. Not a leader, but reliable. And Blue was going to need all the help he could get. He just had to ask for it in a way that didn’t show his hand.

  The door through to the warehouse was padlocked shut. A combination lock. You had to put in a code. The door was solid. Couldn’t be forced. They had to figure out the code or go back and find another way in.

  And did they even want to get in? What was in there? Who had left that crazy-arsed message on the wall?

  ‘There’s another one here,’ said Ollie, who’d been studying the lock, and he pointed out some more lettering, low down on the door. Much smaller writing to the other message. Neat, spidery, spelled properly. It had obviously been written by someone else.

  ‘What’s it say?’ Blue asked.

  ‘It’s a quotation of some sort,’ said Ollie. ‘But some of it’s worn off. I can’t read it all.’

  ‘Try.’

  Ollie began to read. ‘Then I saw another beast, coming out of the earth. He had two horns like a lamb, but he spoke like a dragon – can’t read this bit, um – he performed great and miraculous signs, even causing fire to come down from heaven to earth – next bit’s gone – He deceived the inhabitants of the earth. He ordered them to set up an image in honour of the beast who was wounded by the sword and yet lived – I can’t read any of this next bit, except – He also forced everyone, small and great, rich and poor, free and slave, to receive a mark on his right hand or on his forehead, so that no one could buy or sell unless he had the mark, which is the name of the beast or the number of his name. This calls for wisdom. If anyone has insight let him calculate the number of the beast, for it is man’s number.’

  ‘Yeah, great,’ said Blue. ‘That’s a real help.’

  44

  ‘Cats,’ said Kamahl.

  Big Mick grinned. Cats. Of course. It was pretty bloody obvious when you came to look at it properly. It wasn’t one creature at the doors, it was about thirty of them. Feral cats. Tangled, writhing, up on their back legs scratching at the glass. Mick had never liked cats, and these ones were horrible. They were scabby, chewed up, half bald, with chunks of fur missing, runny eyes, snotty noses, desperately thin, their bones showing through stretched skin.

  He felt suddenly sick. He wanted to get out there and smash them to pieces. Needed to take out his frustration on something.

  ‘First dogs, now cats,’ said Kamahl. ‘What next? Mutant killer mice?’

  No one laughed.

  ‘What are they after?’ Jake asked.

  ‘Who cares?’ Mick replied. ‘Let’s get rid of them.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For fun.’

  ‘Fun?’

  ‘I don’t like them.’

  ‘If we don’t have to go outside let’s not go, yeah?’ said Brandon. ‘We’re supposed to keep watch and wait here for the others to get back.’

  Brandon was a bit nervous, careful, but you could always rely on him in a fight. Jake had a habit of being a bit crazy and rushing into things. Brandon and Kamahl used their brains a bit more.

  ‘We’ll check outside,’ said Mick. ‘See if any more grown-ups have got through the fence.’

  ‘Mick – if we don’t have to …’

  ‘We do have to, Brandon. We have to guard the rear, and that means we might have to walk the perimeter.’

  ‘Mick … They’re cats.’

  But Mick wasn’t listening. They could stay here if they wanted. He couldn’t stand it any longer, being cooped up in here, like the waiting room for something horrible. He had to do something. Get out there. Kill a cat if that was what it took. And while he was out there it wouldn’t do any harm to check what was going on. If there was an army of grown-ups waiting for them, Blue would want to be warned. Jake, Kamahl and Brandon might look up to Mick, but Mick looked up to Blue. Blue had got them through everything. He was a good leader. He was Mick’s best friend.

  Mick grabbed a spear and tugged the doors open, scattering the cats that were clawing at it. They squealed and screeched, regrouped and foamed about his ankles like a living carpet. He swiped at them and they parted, dodging out of the way, and then joining up into a solid mass again.

  He cursed and started to chase them. Threw his spear at a big, one-eyed, mangy freak and missed by a mile. Went to pick his spear up. He turned back. Jake, Brandon and Kamahl were staring at him through the windows. Laughing and shouting. Though he couldn’t hear anything. That made him even angrier. He was determined to catch the big cat now. He ran af
ter it, trying to separate it from the others. Swiping with his spear, kicking, yelling a string of harsh swear words.

  Every time he looked back his three friends were still laughing and enjoying the show.

  He chased the pack of cats along the building to where the floor-to-ceiling glass wall curved round the corner, Brandon, Kamahl and Jake following him all the way.

  Mick yelped and hopped as a hot, sharp pain stabbed into his Achilles tendon. He looked down – one of the cats had bitten him. Others were scratching at his trouser legs.

  Bastards. He swung his spear. Connected with a cat and sent it flying, only for it to land on its feet and come back at him. And there was One-Eye, hissing at him, jaws wide.

  He chucked the spear, saw it embed itself in the ground, went into a crouch, arms flailing, hands grasping. The cats were mewling and screaming at him, like little children.

  He had One-Eye cornered.

  ‘Here, pussy, pussy … Bastard pussy …’

  Threw out his hands. Lunged …

  Got it! He had One-Eye by the loose skin on the back of its neck. He held it up like a trophy as it wriggled in his grasp, paws scrabbling at the air, legs kicking. He showed it to his three spectators, a look of triumph on his face. They were still laughing, but cheering now as well, clapping.

  And then One-Eye wrenched its head round and bit deep into his hand. Mick roared, hurling the cat to one side where it landed harmlessly. He swore, shaking his hand. Why had he been so stupid? All he’d done was get himself cut again. Now he’d be full of cat germs, bastard cat bacteria. He couldn’t let it go. Couldn’t let it live now. He ran after it. Tripped and fell.

  Didn’t want to see what the other boys’ reaction would be to that. Could imagine it, though. This was turning into a comedy. Something off YouTube. Epic fails. He looked over to them. Ready to jeer.

  They weren’t laughing any more, though. They looked scared, eyes wide, mouths shouting something at him.