Children's Crusade ac-9

by Scott Andrews

We cross what would once have been a busy traffic junction and suddenly I realise that we're not alone. I become aware of shadows flitting underneath the overpass, and catch a snatch of raucous laughter somewhere up ahead, echoing through a deserted shopping mall. There are people here, all moving in the same direction as we are. Then we turn a corner and I see our destination: The Hammersmith Apollo. The sign above the entrance still reads "Oct 24/5 Britain's Got Talent Roadshow!"

  There's a small market outside, a pathetic collection of scavengers trying to barter remnants and relics for food. But there's precious little of that, just an improvised spit on which rotate a couple of thin looking pigeons. The smell isn't exactly appetising.

  Caroline notices my disgust. "I know. You've probably got a big old vegetable garden and a field of sheep, huh?"

  I nod.

  "I dream about mashed potato," she says wistfully.

  "Then why are you still here?"

  "Because of him," she says, pointing.

  I look up and see a huge mural painted onto the theatre wall. It stretches the entire height of the building and depicts a withered old man in glowing white robes. His balding head is ringed by a red circular halo and his hands are stretched out towards us in a gesture of welcome. Blood drips from his fingers. I suppose it's intended to be beatific, religious, holy. But to me it just looks fucking creepy, because standing around him, gazing up at him in awe and wonder, are a gaggle of children.

  "The Abbot," says Caroline. "Come on, it's nearly time for the miracle" She leads me through the market and into the theatre.

  Inside is a small wiry man with a little stall selling bags of KP peanuts. I gawp. "I know," says Caroline, registering my amazement. "He's here every time, and no-one knows where he gets them. People have tried following him back to wherever he's got his stockpile, but he's too slippery."

  "Hey, thin man," she says cheerily. "Can I get a freebie for my guest here?"

  The peanut seller smiles broadly and tosses a packet to me. "Anything for you, sweetheart," he says. Caroline blows him a kiss and we walk through the doors into the auditorium as I pull open the packet and inhale the salty aroma. Yum.

  "We rescued his daughter — well, he says she's his daughter — from the snatchers six months back," she offers as explanation.

  There's a big screen on the stage and a projector in front of it. A relatively large crowd — fifty or so people — has gathered in front of the stage. I hear the cough and splutter of a generator starting up and settling into its rhythm before the projector comes alive and beams snowstorm static for our amusement.

  "So what are we going to see?" I ask through a mouthful of honey roasted heaven.

  "Wait and see. It happens at the same time every fortnight," she says, as we take our positions at the edge of the crowd.

  The television signal kicks in and we see a graphic of a red circle against a light blue background, and then the show begins. The miracle.

  The broadcast is by a group who call themselves the Apostolic Church of the Rediscovered Dawn and they're — wouldn't you know it — American. Their leader is the creepy guy from the mural. An ancient, wizened old vampire who's survived the plague despite being — he claims — AB Positive. He provides a demonstration, mixing his blood with O-Neg taken from two acolytes who sport the dead-eyed grins of happy cultists, then holding it up to the camera as it clumps.

  The crowd in the studio Ooh and Aah, gasp and clap, then they start singing some bollocking awful gospel shit. The crowd here, though, aren't quite so sold. I get the impression they're just basking in the glow of the television, reminding themselves of moving pictures and cathode ray tubes. The programme is irrelevant, but watching it evokes families gathered around the national fireplace watching Big Brother or Doctor Who. Happier, simpler times.

  When the song has finished, the abbot gives a little sermon. About children. It takes a few minutes for the penny to drop, and then I remember what the snatcher had said back in the school, about saving the children's immortal souls.

  "Dear God," I whisper, my peanuts momentarily forgotten. "They're shipping them to America."

  Chapter Eight

  "America? You have to be shitting me."

  "No, honest man. They got planes flying out of Heathrow and everything."

  "But why?"

  "New beginning. That's what the churchies say. We're rescuing the kids so they can go out to America and find the Promised Land or something. They've got it easy over there, you know."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah, still got electricity and supermarkets and all that stuff. So I heard."

  "And the nukes?"

  "Wiped out the political elite. Left a power vacuum that these Neo-Clergy have filled. And they've got everything just fucking sorted, man. Peace, love, charity, all that jazz."

  Tariq looked at me over the top of our prisoner's head and rolled his eyes.

  "Listen, pal, I don't know where you're getting your information but I know for a fact that America's political elite is alive and kicking."

  "Yeah, 'course you do."

  "Saw the President himself two years back, on a live… oh. Oh holy shit!"

  "What?" asked Dad.

  "What his aide said about children. Do you remember Tariq?"

  "I was bit busy being shot, old chap."

  "He said, now let me get this right… 'spied her rounding up the children'. It was the first thing I heard when I came round in Blythe's office."

  "Well, that's our boss, isn't it," said our captive. "Spider. The big man."

  "Spider? I thought he was talking about Jane. Spied her. Fuck, I'm an idiot."

  "What are you thinking, Lee?"

  "Don't you get it? That wasn't the bloody president. That was this Abbot guy pretending to be the President. He had Blythe running round at his beck and call, trying to take control of the UK so he could use the army to round up all the children and ship them out to the States."

  "And he must have already had a guy on the ground starting the job," says Tariq. "This Spider bloke."

  "Who's assumed control this end now that we've taken the army out of the equation. The President's aide told Blythe there was a bigger picture."

  "This isn't a new mess at all, then," said Dad. "It's the same old mess."

  "But with less impaling this time around. I hope."

  "Yeah," said our captive cheerily. "The big man prefers crucifixion."

  I clipped his ear.

  "Um… I didn't follow half of that," said the guy who'd assumed control of the Rangers. "Can you start at the beginning?"

  "Later," snapped Dad. "First of all, this little sod's going to give us chapter and verse on his boss's operation. Aren't you?"

  "You betcha."

  "Smart lad."

  An hour later we were gathered in front of a classroom whiteboard as Dad talked us through a map of London that he'd put together during the interrogation.

  "These guys are well armed, very organised and disciplined," he told us. "They've got a whole bunch of ex-special forces types running their operation, and they maintain a clear and functional command structure. The good news for us is that they mainly concern themselves with keeping order in London. The snatchers who operate outside the M25 are basically contractors. They're scavengers and lowlifes who work in teams to assemble kids in a number of compounds like this one, spread around the country. Then they're collected regularly by convoys, each of which is run by one overseer from central command who keeps them in line.

  "They don't have complete control of London. South of the river their control is pretty much absolute. There are communities there who are actually giving their kids to these bastards willingly. It's an area of hard core zealots and converts. Pretty much entirely hostile territory.

  "North of the river the picture's less clear. It seems the population there is mostly controlled by fear and intimidation, although the battle for hearts and minds is ongoing. There's one major pocket of resistance around Hammersmi
th where — Lee, you'll like this — a gang of kids who escaped from a transport have set up a liberation army."

  I smiled. "Nice."

  "But according to our man here, there's a major crackdown planned for next week. They've tried to lure them out into traps or get someone on the inside, but it's never worked. They're going to go in hard and wipe them out."

  "Not so nice," murmured Tariq.

  "What about their command?" asked one of the Rangers.

  "This is where it gets tricky. They've set up home in the Palace of Westminster and turned it into a fortress. Concrete barricades, electric fences, gun towers, searchlights. They've even got a minefield. And this is where their boss lives. Spider."

  "What do we know about him?" I asked.

  "He holds court from the speaker's chair in the House of Commons, but apart from that, nothing. No one except the very top echelon get to see him. But he's got a reputation for being utterly ruthless."

  "There's a surprise," I said.

  "And he keeps his men happy with a brothel he's set up in — get this — the main chamber of the House of Lords."

  "Brothel?"

  "Rape camp, really, I guess. A whole bunch of young girls who are at the men's disposal 24/7. He's got huge stockpiles of food and booze too. If you work for him, you eat and drink your fill and fuck any time you feel like it."

  "Shit, where do I sign up," laughed one of the Rangers until his mates gave him death stares, and he muttered: "Only joking, geez."

  "Twat," said one of his colleagues.

  Silence fell as we considered the size of the task before us.

  "So," said Tariq eventually. "We invade London, fight our way past a city full of brainwashed religious cultists, take on a private army, storm a massively fortified castle that's defended by highly motivated special forces, and kill this Spider fucker. Then we take a plane, fly to America, rescue all the kids and take down a church that effectively rules a continent."

  "That's about the size of it," said Dad.

  Tariq sniffed dismissively. "That's the problem with life these days. So few real challenges."

  "So here's what we're going to do," Dad continued. "Tariq, you're going back to St Mark's. There's a chance that Jane might tell them where the school is."

  "No fucking way," I shouted. "She'd die first."

  "They might not let her, Lee."

  "She'd never talk."

  "We can't take that chance." He stared me down and after a long moment, I nodded. He was right. "Tariq, you go back to the school and put them on a war footing. We've rehearsed it often enough, so you know what to do. But be ready to mobilise, too. We might need you."

  "No worries, boss," said Tariq.

  "Lee, you're going with our Ranger friends here. Meet up with Jack in Nottingham see if you can persuade the Hooded Man to lend us some troops. We'll need all the help we can get."

  "He'll want to talk to you about our dead men, too, I reckon," said one of them, threateningly. Dad was instantly right in his face.

  "If anything happens to my boy, there will be a very bloody reckoning in Nottingham. Do I make myself completely clear?"

  The Ranger tried to stare him down, but failed. He looked away. "Whatever," he said. But he looked away first. Message received.

  "And what about you?" I asked.

  "I'm going to Hammersmith," he replied, stepping back. "If there really is an army of kids in there, they don't know an attack is coming. I can warn them and either help get them to safety or, more likely, help them fight. It's where my experience will be most useful. We need all the allies we can get if we're going to pull this off."

  I was checking the saddle on the spare horse the Rangers were letting me ride when Dad took me to one side.

  "What now?" I asked tersely.

  He looked at me hard, as father and commander fought it out. "It's been two years since Iraq and Salisbury. You've not been in a fight since. You refuse to talk to anyone about anything that happened. And now, the first time we go into combat, you shoot six people — one potential ally and five irrelevances who didn't need killing."

  "I disagree. They really, really needed killing. But I'm sorry about earlier. I wasn't thinking straight."

  "I know. I'm sorry too. But I'm worried about you. You're my son and I love you but to be totally honest you scare me a little bit right now. I think your judgement is off."

  "That why you're sending me on the diplomatic mission?"

  "No, you were the logical choice. But I can't pretend I'm not glad of that."

  "Can I have my weapon back?"

  He sighed and handed me the handgun. "Just don't shoot Robin Hood, okay?"

  We both sniggered in spite of ourselves. "Now there's a sentence I never thought I'd have to say," he said, smiling.

  We both stepped forward and embraced, awkwardly. "Good luck in London," I said. "I'll be at the rendezvous, whether he sends help with me or not."

  He hugged me hard then let me go and stepped back.

  "Be safe," he said.

  I put my foot in the stirrup, swing myself onto the horse and trotted over to join Hood's men.

  "We ride fast and we won't be making any concessions. So keep up or get left behind," said their leader.

  "Don't you worry about me," I said.

  "Oi!" it was Tariq, walking towards me, waving. I pulled the reins and steered my horse across to him.

  "You off then?" he said.

  "Yup. See you at the rendezvous."

  He nodded then looked up at me, his face for once entirely serious. "She'll be fine, Lee."

  "Let me worry about her," I replied. "You just keep the school safe. No matter what."

  "Promise. Hey, you'd better hurry up, they're going without you."

  I turned to see the Rangers galloping away down the road. I kicked my steed hard and took off after them, riding to beg assistance from a legend.

  Chapter Nine

  "He wears this black robe with a big hood. He never takes it off."

  "So you never saw his face?"

  "No, sorry."

  "And his voice?"

  "He didn't speak. He just nodded or shook his head when they asked him questions."

  I put my hand on the arm of the little boy with the missing ear and say: "Thank you."

  He nods and scampers off.

  "I told you he wouldn't be much help," says Caroline. We're sitting on one of the sofas, back in the office building she calls home, watching the sun set behind the Lyric Theatre.

  "And he's the only one here who's met Spider?"

  Caroline nods. "He doesn't leave Parliament, and he doesn't show his face. Why are you so interested anyway? You'll never get near him."

  "Someone said that to me once before, but I got close enough to ensure that he'll remember me for the rest of his life."

  Caroline regards me curiously. "So you met this guy before The Cull?"

  "I think so. No, I know so. It must be him. It all fits."

  "And is he the reason you changed your name and went into hiding?"

  I look up, startled. "How…?

  "I heard you and Sanders talking after I was shot. You thought I was asleep. He knows you from before, doesn't he?"

  "Yes. And it's knew, I'm afraid. He's dead too."

  "So…"

  "Yes, Spider's the reason I went into witness protection and ended up at St Mark's. But it's a long story and I don't really want to talk about it, if that's okay."

  "Whatever. So the school's back up and running?"

  "Yeah," I reply, grateful that she isn't pressing the point. "Sixteen staff now, seventy-three kids. It would be more if these bastards weren't spiriting them away."

  Caroline stares intently at her hands. I can tell she wants to ask the obvious question but isn't sure how to.

  "Yes," I say. "All of you. We've got plenty of room."

  She looks up and beams. "There are thirty-four of us. Plus kids we rescued today."

  "More the merrier,
" I say, smiling.

  "We'll have to go out and around," she says, excited for the first time today. "Coz south of the river is churchland." She looks up at me and stops short, her smile fading. "There's a 'but' isn't there?"

  I nod. "Spider. He and I have unfinished business."

  "But… but that's mad. Even if you get in to see him, he's surrounded by a fucking army!"

  "Oh, he'll see me, all right. And as for the army. Well, one thing at a time, eh?"

  I take out my sidearm and chamber a round.

  "You are fucking mental, Miss. If you go and get yourself killed, who's going to get these kids to safety? You owe them… you owe me that."

  She's right, of course. I do.

  I know the sensible thing is to get these kids back to St Mark's, meet up with Lee, try and recruit help from Nottingham and put together a properly formulated plan of action. I know this. But John and Tariq are lying dead in that school, and Lee is missing. For all I know, I could be the only one left of our team, and I'm closer to the heart of this mystery than anyone's yet got.

  I can't turn back now.

  I shake my head. "Sorry Caroline. I'll give you directions to the school," I say. "If I'm not back in three days, take these kids and go."

  I lean forward and hug her tightly but she doesn't respond, shocked at my abandonment. "I'm so glad you're safe, sweetheart," I say. "I can't tell you how glad."

  Then I let her go, stand up, and walk out of the building without looking back. I don't want to see the accusation in her gaze. I take a moment to get my bearings then take off down the high street, heading for the Thames. If I walk all night, I can be there by dawn.

  It's a bitter night. Clear sky, full moon. The sun's not down for an hour before there's frost on the ground. I walk down the Thameside path in the half-light, listening to the lap of the waves as the tide drags the river down, slowly exposing the rubble of a thousand demolished warehouses and the rotting timbers of ancient wharfs and jetties.

  I went on a walking tour of the Thames once, when I was a medical student at Barts and The London. The guide was an ancient old woman, eighty if she was a day, yet sprightly and funny and with a deep booming voice that always reached me, even when I was at the edge of the crowd.