Tariq and I unstrapped ourselves, climbed to the edge of the roof and jumped on to a soft bed of pine needles. Dad stayed on the vehicle.
"Get clear," he shouted. "I'm going to cut some of the parachute straps and see if I can get this thing on the ground the right way up."
"Don't be daft," I replied. "If you cut the wrong cord, the Stryker could flip and land on you."
"Just get clear, Lee," he said impatiently.
I knew that tone meant no arguments, so I walked away and watched, nervous as hell, as Dad sawed away at the various parachute cords that were holding the vehicle in a complex swaying web. Each cord gave way with a loud twang, huge amounts of tension being released as they snapped. The vehicle lurched, first one way, then the other, then forwards, then backwards. It was like Dad was playing some vast, lethal game of Kerplunk. Cut the wrong cord and it was all over.
Bit by bit the vehicle came free, swinging more wildly as it hung by fewer threads. Then Dad made a mistake, cut the wrong cord and the whole thing pivoted and pointed nose down. Dad was flung forward and was left hanging off the gun turret. Tariq and I gasped, but Dad pulled himself up the roof until he reached the rear bumper. Reaching up with his knife, he cut the last cord and the vehicle dropped on to its nose. Then it slowly toppled backwards and landed the right way up, flinging Dad off it like a bronco rider on a bad day. He landed in a heap, but he was fine.
He stood up, brushing the dirt and pine needles off him. "Right" he said, "let's get this show on the road!"
We cut the straps that bound the vehicle into the pallet, and disconnected the final straggling parachute cords. Then we climbed inside and Dad booted her up. Even after that insane descent, she started first time. The touchscreens came to life. Dad pored over them for a minute or two and then announced: "It's Bavaria."
"What?" I said, incredulous.
Dad turned around, facing Tariq and I with a big smile on his face.
"It's Bavaria. We're just outside Ingolstadt."
"How the hell do you know that?" I asked.
"The satnav's working!" he replied with a grin. "All right, what's your postcode?"
The Stryker was designed for road clearance, and Dad drove like a demon, so we made good time. Germany's autobahns and France's highways proved impassable, but the satnav steered us down side roads and country lanes, always heading for our next stop – Calais station and the Channel Tunnel.
A couple of times we encountered roadblocks manned by gangs of marauders, but we kept driving straight through them as the bullets pinged harmlessly off our carapace. I knew that the Americans would have attacked England by now, and the knot of fear and anticipation in my stomach wound tighter with every mile. What would I find when we got to the school? Would it be a smoking wreck, ringed by the impaled corpses of my friends? And if so, how could I ever live with myself? I grew quiet and sullen, eaten up with stress, so it fell to Tariq to pepper our journey with anecdotes and nonsense. Sometimes he managed to get a smile out of me, but not often.
Dad and I didn't talk much, but the silence was less charged than it had been in Iraq. Perhaps he was starting to accept that I was more man than boy now, whatever my age. Or perhaps I was just enjoying being with him, watching him be heroic and confident, enjoying having someone look after me for a change, instead of me bearing all the weight. Either way, it was better. Not right, but at least better.
Eventually, after four days of negotiating our way across Europe, we arrived at the station in Coquelles, near Calais. We knew that the Chunnel might be blocked, but we fancied holding on to the Stryker, and if the tunnel were passable it would be a quick and easy trip. What we didn't reckon on was the welcoming committee.
From my position at the gunner's post, I kept lookout using the periscope as the Stryker nosed its way through the station entrance and on to the concourse. Burnt-out trains stood at the platforms, shattered glass everywhere.
On a bench in the middle of the concourse, a solitary man sat watching us.
"You see him?" I said.
"Uh-huh," replied Dad, slowing to a halt and putting on the handbrake.
"What do you reckon?"
Dad didn't answer, I glanced over my shoulder and saw that he was using his periscope to scan the windows of the buildings that overlooked the concourse.
"What you looking for?" I asked.
"Anything. Keep an eye on the guy. What's he doing?"
I pressed my eye against the periscope and zoomed in.
"He's smiling."
"Like a 'hi guys, good to see you' kind of smile?" asked Tariq, frustrated that he couldn't see what was going on.
I zoomed in closer, until the man's face filled my vision. He was dressed in black and grey combats and was wearing sunglasses. I couldn't see his eyes, but there was a cold malevolence about his smile; something feral yet amused.
"No," I said. "More a 'come into my parlour said the spider to the fly' kind of smile." I described a circle, checking for snipers or traps. I saw nothing, but I wasn't reassured.
"I can see the way to the tunnel," I said. "Should we just drive?"
Dad considered it, and shook his head. "No. I dunno who this bloke is, but he could have booby traps anywhere. The tunnel might be exactly where he wants us."
Before we could decide what to do, the man took the initiative. He got up and walked towards us, stopping just in front of the vehicle. He removed his glasses to reveal jet black eyes.
"Bonjour," he said affably.
Dad stroked the touchscreen and spoke into the mic on his helmet. "Parlez vouz Anglais?" His awkward schoolboy French echoed around the empty concourse and he stroked the screen again, turning down the loudspeakers.
"Ah," said the man in a strong French accent, his eyes full of calculation and surprise. "We thought perhaps some Anglais might come through the tunnel. We were not expecting any to go the other way."
Dad put his hand over his mic. "He said 'we'. Lee, keep looking, he's not alone." Then he took his hand away and replied: "We just want to go home. We've travelled a long way."
"I can see that," said the man. "This is not a British fighting vehicle." It was not a question, which told me that he knew his stuff. Military background, perhaps? "My name is De Falaise," said the man, rather more grandly than seemed appropriate. "My colleagues and I control this station. If you wish to pass, we would expect some form of consideration."
"Here we go," said Tariq.
"What do you have in mind?" asked Dad.
"Information."
"What kind of information?"
"Have you been in contact with Britain since The Cull? By radio perhaps? Can you tell us anything about what is happening on the other side of that tunnel? My friends and I, you see, are thinking of relocating."
I caught a glint, just for an instant, in a window behind us. I thumbed the zoom button and sure enough there was a man in position there; tripod, sniper rifle, telescopic sight. I didn't think he could do us any damage, but there might be more.
"Sniper, three o'clock, in the hotel," I whispered.
Dad covered his mic again. "Get ready, Lee," he whispered back. "When I give the word, fire a warning shot. Just a warning shot, mind. I don't want to start a war."
"'Kay."
Dad took his hand away and spoke again. "No contact. It all went dead long ago."
I couldn't see De Falaise's reaction to this, but I imagined it was either disappointment or disbelief.
"That is what I thought," he said. "Then perhaps we could trade something else. I think, perhaps, I would like your armoured car. I think I would like it very much."
"Fire," said Dad.
I gently squeezed the trigger and the gun mounted on the roof burst into life, spraying heavy rounds around the window where the sniper was poised. I saw him leap backwards, arms raised to protect himself from the chips of stone that were flying into his face. Once he was out of sight I squeezed again, destroying the rifle and taking him out of the game. Then I sw
ivelled my periscope to see how our Frenchman would react. He hadn't moved an inch. Cool customer.
The sound of gunfire reverberated around the empty space, fading away gradually. Only when silence reigned once more did De Falaise speak.
"That is a disappointment," he said. "I was planning on letting you go."
Dad didn't wait to hear what he said next, choosing to slam his foot on to the accelerator and drive straight at De Falaise. But the Frenchman was too fast, diving out of the way to reveal the smoke trail of an approaching rocket-propelled grenade.
"Shit!" yelled Dad, and he yanked the wheel hard right, flinging Tariq and I to the floor. We skidded to a halt sideways and before we could get underway again the grenade hit us broadsides.
To this day, that explosion is the last thing I ever heard in stereo.
It's impossible to describe a noise so loud that it blows out your eardrums. It was like a physical blow; like someone jamming a sharpened pencil in my ear and then wiggling it for a bit as the aftershocks bounced around. I screamed and wrapped my hands around my ears, feeling blood pouring from them. Then all I could hear was a deep throbbing tone, like a dead TV. My sense of balance was gone too. I rolled about on the floor of the vehicle trying to stop everything spinning. I vomited all over myself and I didn't become aware of anything else until Dad sat me up and jabbed a needle in my arm. Then I passed out.
I was deaf. I knew that before I even opened my eyes. I could feel the bandages around my head. I opened my eyes and there was Dad, leaning over me. I was on the couch in the back of the Stryker. Tariq lay on the couch across from me. He also had dried blood on his ears, but wasn't bandaged. Dad, I realised, had been wearing the driver's helmet, which would have protected him from the worst effects of the sound, and Tariq had obviously been hurt, just not as badly as me. So it was just me that got unlucky. Great.
Dad stroked my hair tenderly. I could see his lips moving but all I could hear was that dead TV tone in my right ear. My left ear registered nothing at all.
"I'm deaf," I said. Or at least I think I said it. I may have shouted it, or said "I'm cleft" for all I know. It was weird, knowing I was making sounds but being unable to hear them.
Dad nodded and turned away. I think perhaps he was trying to hide his emotions. After a moment he turned back, and mouthed some words slowly. It took a moment for me to work out what he was saying but eventually I got it.
He was saying: "We came through the tunnel. We're home. England. We made it."
Chapter Fifteen
Jane
It sounds strange to say it, but I was lucky that I was so badly hurt.
General Blythe was convinced that I was some sort of post-apocalyptic spymistress running covert ops at home and abroad, using specially recruited and trained kids like Lee.
"One boy, about eleven-years-old we think, single-handedly killed seven of my men during the attack on Salisbury," drawled Blythe in his broad American accent.
"Is he alive?" I said, dreading the answer.
"Oh yeah. We captured him. He's a tough little nut – the only person I've ever had in my custody who lasted more than fifteen minutes of waterboarding. And of course you know how effective that method is at extracting information."
"No I don't, you sick fuck. Because I'm not a spy!" I shouted.
"When he did break, he told us a pack of lies that had us chasing our tails for a week. Someone trained him, Miss Crowther. You don't expect me to believe that a eleven year-old gets that kind of resilience out of nowhere, do you?"
"Believe what you like."
"Thank you, I will. And I believe that you are a player. My first instinct was to kill you. But I need to know the details of all your current ops. Do you have people in Russia, the US?"
"Go to hell," I spat.
"Undoubtedly, Miss Crowther, but hopefully not for a while yet. Having instructed my surgeons to save your life, I find that you are too weak to endure our interrogation techniques. They tell me that a single session on the waterboard would kill you, that you need at least a month of bed rest before undergoing any kind of strenuous activity. I'm not willing to sit around waiting for you to get better, but neither do I want to kill you until I'm absolutely certain you've told us everything you know. What to do, what to do?" He was smiling as he said this, toying with me like the sick sadist he was.
"Ah-ha!" he snapped his fingers and smiled. "Got it! I'll torture your friend. Why didn't I think of it before?"
"What friend?" I tried to make it sound mocking, but my fear was too strong to conceal. Had he got Jack? I hardly knew the boy, but I wouldn't sit back and let him be tortured. And what if the others from the school had got tired of waiting for me to come back? Were all the children and staff being held captive somewhere in the house, the guards taking their time choosing which of them would be first for the rack?
The general nodded to the soldier on the door and he left, returning a moment later pushing a woman. She was chained with one of those American prison chain things that loops from feet to hands to neck, so she could only shuffle, and she had a hessian sack over her head. But I knew instantly who it was. The soldier pulled the bag off to reveal Mrs Atkins, our beloved dinner lady. She had a black eye and a bruised mouth, but she stood defiant, her eyes blazing with fury. Then she noticed me, and her reaction told me everything I needed to know about what kind of shape I was in.
"Dear Lord, Jane, what have they done to you?" she whispered.
"We saved her life," said the general. "You'd better hope she's going to save yours." Then he nodded again, the sack was replaced and Mrs Atkins was led away. As she shuffled away she shouted: "You be strong, love. Don't tell them a thing!" Bless her, but that was the worst thing she could have said, merely confirming in the general's mind that I was hiding big secrets.
"I have a few things I gotta get done back at Salisbury," he said. "So I'm going to fly back there now and give you a night to sleep on it. But midday tomorrow, my men are going to go to work on your friend there, and you're gonna have a front row seat. So you think carefully, Miss Crowther. You think very carefully. Indeed." He rose to leave.
"Where's Rowles?" I asked desperately.
"Who?" he asked as he reached the door.
"The eleven year-old boy you captured in Salisbury. What, you couldn't even get him to tell you his name?" I laughed. "You need better torturers, General."
He flashed me a look of warning. I didn't want to push this man too far.
"He's fine. We got him locked up. Collateral."
"And the girl?"
"Girl?"
I bit my lip. Stupid.
"I'll get my men to look for a girl. Thank you for the tip."
"And the others? The soldiers who were based there?"
But he just shrugged as if to say "what can you do" and walked out.
It took me a second to believe it, but I knew deep down that he'd killed them. All of them. The British Army had been routed.
The guard left the room with the general, and I was left alone in the wheelchair. I'd lost Sanders; Rowles and Mrs Atkins were captured; Caroline was missing, and all that faced us was torture and death.
I tried to rise from my wheelchair, to push myself up, walk to the door, but I was too weak. I couldn't even muster enough strength to turn the wheels and push myself to the bed. And so there I sat, defeated, broken and scared, watching the general's ugly military helicopter rise from the field where the children used to play football.
As night fell there was a knock on the door. I didn't bother replying, after all I was the prisoner. After a moment, the door was pushed open and I was confronted by a young woman in military fatigues.
She stood in the doorway holding a tray on which rested a steaming plate and a glass of water. The woman seemed unsure about whether to enter or not.
"Miss Crowther, may I come in please?" she asked. Her soft accent, Deep South, made her seem polite and diffident.
"Suit yourself," I muttered.
"You're strong," I said as she wrestled me on to the bed.
"I spend most of my time lifting bodies of one kind or another," she said flatly.
When I was settled and tucked in, she stood over me and offered her hand. "I'm Susan, Sue." I looked at her hand and snorted contemptuously. She withdrew it then sat beside me and lifted the bowl of soup from the tray. "It's beef. You need to keep your strength up. It's going to be a long recovery."
I considered spitting it in her face, but what would have been the point? I opened my mouth and gulped down the broth. We sat there not speaking as I ate the food and drank the water. I studied her. By almost anyone's standards she was unattractive. Her figure was short and square, her hair was muddy brown, and she had a flat nose, receding chin and piggy little eyes. She was flat-out ugly, but her brown eyes were kind and her voice was gentle.
"Is there anything else I can get you?" she asked.
"A gun," I joked.
"Small or large."
I sniffed. But she just sat there, waiting for my response.
"Small, please."
"Ammunition?"
I laughed. "Oh, loads."
She smiled and nodded. "I'll see what I can do, Miss." Then she stood, collected the tray, and left.
What an odd little encounter that was, I thought, as I closed my eyes and drifted into a haunted sleep.
It was still dark when I jolted awake, my heart hammering urgently in my breast. Something had disturbed me. I listened and heard the creak of floorboards outside the door. Someone was creeping about outside. I tried to lift myself, but it was futile; pain ripped through every part of me as I tried to move. All I could do was lie there, waiting to see who it was and what they wanted.
The door cracked open quietly and a shadowy figure stepped inside, pushing the door closed behind them as softly as they could. Then they walked to the bed and stood over me.
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