The soldier, unaware of his lucky escape, kicked the door closed and pulled a huge knife from a sheath in his belt. He ran across to my bed, shoved it away from the wall and got between the bedhead and the wall, leaning over me and placing the knife blade to my throat with one hand as he raised his gun in the other.
“I’m under orders to kill you if we come under attack,” he growled.
I heard a voice from outside shout, “Finally, someone with balls.”
It was Lee.
I tried to shout a warning but the soldier clapped his hand across my mouth and took aim at the door. I bit the soldier’s fingers but he didn’t let go.
I saw Lee’s unmistakeable silhouette through the smoked glass panel on the door as he pushed it open. Then the glass shattered and he flew backwards, out of sight, as the soldier behind me shot him three times in the chest.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
LEE
IT WAS A day’s drive back to Groombridge. As Dad drove, the nausea gradually subsided and my sense of balance slowly returned. The pain in my head helped take my mind off the crippling fear that everyone would be dead before we arrived.
The emergency medikit that Dad had plundered for the injection yielded lots more painkillers, much stronger than anything you used to be able to buy at a chemist’s. I began popping Tylenol 3 like it was going out of fashion.
We stopped to rest for the night in a suburban cul-de-sac outside Tunbridge Wells, breaking into Barrett homes until we found one that wasn’t full of corpses. The living room was lined with DVDs and sported an enormous widescreen TV. It looked new but it would never show a picture again.
Dad carefully unwound my bandages and mopped the blood off my ear with water from the tank in the loft. When he’d cleaned me up he put his hands on my cheeks and rested his forehead against mine. “You’re going to be okay, I promise.”
My left ear was still completely silent, but the dead TV tone in my right ear was subsiding, and I found that I could just about hear Dad if he spoke loudly. I hoped the hearing would recover enough to be functional; I didn’t think there’d be that many people left who spoke sign language. Being deaf in this world would be pretty fucking lonely. But I refused to give in to self pity. I had the school to worry about and mistakes to make right.
Dad explained that the Stryker had external fuel tanks which were designed to explode away from the vehicle if ignited. The RPG had hit one of them, hence the unusually big bang, but the defences had held and we’d been able to drive away under heavy fire. Had I been wearing the gunner’s helmet my hearing would have been fine; Dad just had a mild ringing in his ears.
Tariq, who had been on the opposite side of the vehicle to the explosion, could still hear a constant ringing in both ears, but he could hear us through the background noise. He joked that he had Kevlar eardrums.
We plundered a store of tinned food that we found in the kitchen; obviously the owners had started panic buying when The Cull started. I wondered what had become of them. I spent the night in a child’s bedroom, sleeping underneath a Man Utd duvet surrounded by posters of long-dead sports heroes. Knowing that the morning would confront me with God knew what horrors, my sleep was fitful and disturbed.
We rose with the sun and drove the final leg of our journey in silence. We had prepared all our weapons and I had talked them through the layout of the place as best I could. We left the Stryker in the thick woods north of the grounds and approached the house on foot. We stayed inside the woods, scanning the rear of the building with binoculars. It was still standing, but it was eerily quiet. The gardens are ringed by woods on three sides, so we were able to work our way around, checking the house from all angles. Finally we came around to the front and saw a humvee parked next to Blythe’s calling card – an impaled man. The man was wearing British Army gear and I didn’t recognise him. So the Yanks had been here, some had stayed, and there’d been a killing. But nothing told me what had happened to Matron and the others. I was frantic with worry.
Then Tariq gave a start and pointed to a female American soldier who was walking into the courtyard.
“I know her, she’s a friend,” he said. Before either Dad or I could stop him he was off, running around the edge of the woods to get closer. We stayed put, watching from a distance as Tariq got the woman’s attention and she ducked into the tree-line. After a few minutes she walked back out and Tariq rejoined us.
“They haven’t got the kids,” was the first thing he said, and I was overwhelmed with relief. “But they have got your matron and another lady. The lady is in the cellar, the matron is on the first floor in the south wing. She has been very ill and is recuperating.”
“How many men?” asked Dad.
“Five, including Sue, and she says one of the others is not happy with things and would probably side with us if she had a word with him.” He smiled. “Good odds, yes?”
We retreated and made our plans.
What we didn’t know was that our every move was being watched.
I’D ALWAYS ASSUMED that one day Dad would teach me to drive, but I thought it would be in a Ford KA or a Mini; I didn’t expect my first driving lesson to be in an armoured minesweeper.
I remembered when he’d taught me how to ride a bike. It had stabilisers on the back but somehow I kept managing to fall off anyway. Dad would pick me up, dust me off, dry my tears, and ask me if I wanted to give up. I sniffed and shook my head, checked my helmet was secure, and got right back on the saddle. Learning to drive an armoured car was much easier; if I made a mistake, it wasn’t my knees that got damaged, it was whatever car, tree or house happened to get in our way. It was more fun getting it wrong and crashing in to stuff, but I forced myself to concentrate; every minute I wasted was another minute Matron spent in captivity.
“I don’t want you out in the open, Lee,” Dad had insisted. “You won’t hear if I shout you a warning, or if someone’s yelling at you to put down your weapon. Going into battle deaf is a surefire way to get yourself killed. I want you in here, safe.”
“I’m not disagreeing with you, Dad. But this isn’t your fight. You don’t know these people, they’re my responsibility.”
He shook his head in wonder. “Listen to you. Son, you’re sixteen. The only responsibility you should have is passing your GCSEs. And as for no ties, this is your home now. So it’s mine too. If you’re willing to risk your life for your friends, then so am I. Okay?”
“Okay,” I said with a smile. “And thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. Now, let’s get these gear changes sorted.”
My Dad. Cool as fuck.
So at 11:45 the next day, at the same moment that I knew Dad and Tariq were approaching the house from the west, I strapped myself in, revved the engine, and drove the Stryker as fast as I could across the moat bridge and straight into the front doors of Groombridge Place. As soon as the vehicle ground to a halt, jammed in the doorway, I unbuckled myself, ran back to the gunner’s seat and pressed my eye against the periscope. Didn’t take long. Two of them came running down the stairs, guns blazing, and I took care of them sharpish. Wow, I thought, that was easy. Only one left. Dad and Tariq appeared at the end of the entrance hall, so I grabbed my gun, opened the hatch and climbed out to join them.
Sue was close behind them with another soldier, a young African-American guy, thick set and jowly.
“We’ll get the woman from the cellar,” said Sue. “You get Jane.”
They peeled away and the three of us ran up the stairs, guns raised, ready for attack from the landing. None came. We turned right at the top of the wide staircase and followed the landing around to the three doors that led off it. The final one, with its thick frosted glass panels, was where Sue had told us Matron was being held. I ran forward but Dad grabbed my arm and shook his head.
He inched towards the door and shouted the code phrase: “Finally, someone with balls.”
There was no reply, so he raised his gun and pushed the door open. There
was a series of shots from inside the room, the glass shattered and Dad flew backwards, shot in the chest. He hit the ground hard and slid back against the banister, mouth gaping, blood splattered across his face and hands. His gun fell from his useless hands and he gasped for breath as I heard Matron scream “No!” from inside the room.
Why I reacted the way I did, I don’t know. Maybe it was second nature to me now. But I didn’t run to help my dad. Even though I was in shock, and screaming in fury and pain, I didn’t go to help him. Instead, I took the necessary steps to neutralise the threat first. Just like a proper soldier.
I flung myself forward, rolled on the landing and came up crouching, gun raised, in front of the swinging door. I saw a tall soldier standing behind a bald woman in a bed. Without hesitation I put a bullet right between his eyes, spraying his brains all over the wall. I didn’t stay to watch him fall. I threw my gun aside, spun around and grabbed my dad, who was blinking in shock.
I wrapped my arms around him, trying not to look at the gaping holes in his chest and the thick blood pouring from them, staining his combats. He looked up at me and mouthed something I couldn’t hear. I leant closer with my good ear, trying to catch the words, but his eyes rolled back in his head and he became limp and unresponsive.
I cradled him, rocking him back and forth, stroking his hair, crying. I don’t know what I said, but I was speaking to him, trying to keep him with me, trying to talk him out of dying.
I was aware of a commotion behind me but I ignored it. There were people running up the stairs too, but I didn’t spare them a glance. Then there were hands on me, pulling me away. I kicked and fought, but they were too strong. I looked up and saw that it was Tariq and behind him there was that weird bald woman with the sunken eyes and grey skin. She was in a wheelchair now, shouting orders at Sue. Mrs Atkins stood behind them, her hand to her mouth. Tariq held me there, shouting that I should let them work. But the dead TV tone was louder now, rising in pitch in response to the gunfire.
The soldier I had seen with Sue lifted my dad in his arms and carried him away, Mrs Atkins close behind. Sue followed, going down the stairs backwards, carefully pulling the woman in the wheelchair behind her. When they had disappeared Tariq let me go, to sprawl on the landing in my father’s blood.
I felt numb. All I could hear was dead air and static.
JANE
I SAW LEE fly backwards from the door and I screamed. He couldn’t be dead. He just couldn’t. And then my eyes seemed to play tricks on me, because there he was, shaven-headed and bruised, crouched at the door, shooting the guy behind me and then turning round to grab... who?
A young man stepped between us and reached down to put his hand on Lee’s shoulder.
“You!” I shouted. “Come here, get me out of this fucking bed.”
The man turned to face me. He had brown skin, black hair and kind brown eyes. This must be Tariq, I thought. He didn’t move, stunned, it seemed, by what had happened, unsure which way to turn.
“Quickly,” I yelled. “I’m a doctor.” That did the trick. He ran into the room, grabbed the wheelchair and pushed it alongside the bed. Then he stood there, hesitating. “What?” I said, exasperated beyond words.
“Um, you’re...”
I looked down. I was in my pyjamas.
“Oh for God’s sake just pick me up, man.”
“Right, yeah, of course.”
I could hear a low keening noise coming from the landing as Tariq lifted me from my bed into the wheelchair and pushed me towards the two people on the floor. It was only when I reached the door that I realised who the shot man must be.
“Is that Lee’s dad?”
“John, yeah,” mumbled the Iraqi.
I heard heavy footsteps on the stairs and then John croaked: “A school. After all that, I buy it in a bloody school,” and gasped. Lee bent over his dying father and moaned, a low piteous wail of pure emptiness and grief.
I looked to my left and saw Mrs Atkins, Sue and a Yank soldier racing towards us.
“Sue,” I shouted. “You’re a nurse, yes?”
“Yeah,” she said as she skidded to a halt beside me.
“Who operated on me while I was out? Was it you?”
“No, Doctor Cox, he flew back to the main staging area with the general.”
“Shit. But is the OR still in place? Did they strike the OR?”
She looked at me and gasped as she realised what I was suggesting.
“No, it’s still there, hooked up to the generator and everything.”
“Right, you,” I said, pointing to the Yank soldier. “What’s your name?”
“Jamal, Ma’am.”
“Right, Jamal, pick this man up and take him to the OR now. Sue, wheel me downstairs. We have to work fast if we’re going to save him.”
Sue blanched. “I’m not qualified to...”
“No, but I am. I’ll direct you. Sue, it’s his only chance. We can do this.”
She had gone white, but she nodded. “Ok,” she whispered.
Jamal shoved himself past us and reached down to remove Lee, but Tariq blocked his way with a sneer and did it himself, holding Lee back as we moved away. I so wanted to stop and hold Lee, comfort him, feel the reality that he was back. But there was time for tearful reunions later.
“Sue, wheel me downstairs,” I ordered. “We’ve got work to do.”
The operating room that Blythe had used to fix me up had been erected in the kitchen. Ironically, it was the same room I’d used for my fake surgery on the captain who’d been shot here. I tried not to think about what I’d done that day, about the young soldier dying in my arms after I slit his throat. Too much blood on my hands.
A polythene clean-room had been erected using gaffer tape, and there was a makeshift airlock through which you entered the sterile area.
Jamal was standing inside the doorway, still holding John, looking unsure about what to do when Sue wheeled me in. Mrs Atkins entered behind us.
I saw a rack of scrubs in the corner, a tub of alcohol handwash by the sink and a pile of tissue hats and facemasks beside it.
“Is he still breathing?” I asked as we entered.
Jamal nodded.
“Good. No time for protocol now. Jamal, get him on the operating table then get out again.” He did so. “Back upstairs, help the others. Mrs Atkins, you’re going to help Sue perform surgery.”
She nodded briskly. Did nothing faze her?
“Right, both of you, take your shoes off, scrub up in the sink and get those hats and masks on. Where are the instruments?”
“Over there.” Sue pointed to a trolley with a metal tray on top of it. In it rested a collection of surgical instruments, some still covered in blood.
“Shit. I suppose boiling water’s out of the question?” I asked. Without a word Mrs Atkins walked behind the polythene sheets and I heard a click. She popped out again. “Kettle’s on.”
“Then let’s get to work.”
LEE
I SAT ON the landing, arms wrapped around my knees, rocking back and forth with my eyes closed, my clothes slick with my father’s blood.
I felt a hand on my shoulder but I ignored it. It squeezed, trying to attract my attention. I reached up and batted it away. Then someone put their hand across my mouth. I opened my eyes, ready to shout, but Tariq’s nose was an inch from mine and he had his finger to his lips. When he saw that I was with him he held up four fingers and pointed down. I saw past him to Jamal, who stood at the top of the stairs, gun raised, craning across the banister to look down into the entrance hall.
Tariq leaned forward and whispered into my ear.
“Wrong ear,” I muttered. He switched.
“Sorry,” he said. “At least four coming in the front, probably more out back. It was a trap, Lee. They must have been waiting for us to make a move.”
“Dad?”
“In the kitchen. Matron and the others are operating on him now.”
“Right, let’s go.
”
“I think we...” he began, but I was already on my feet and moving past him. I lifted my machine gun to my waist with my left hand, took my Browning out with my right, and walked past Tariq and Jamal before they could react. I walked quickly, focused and calm, straight down the stairs, peripherally aware of Tariq running to stop me. As I descended I saw two soldiers moving cautiously through the entrance hall, silently checking the rooms. One of them saw me, but before he could warn his colleague or bring his weapon to bear I opened fire with the machine gun.
The bullets raked across his body, flinging him backwards as I crouched and fired the Browning, taking the other soldier three times in the chest. I stood up and kept moving.
Tariq fell into step beside me.
“They’ll have heard that,” he said wearily, like he was too tired to be angry.
“Good.” I said coldly.
A stream of bullets flew past our heads. I dived down the last three steps, spinning in mid-air and letting off some shots at the shooter in the office door. I missed, but the doorframe splintered, momentarily distracting the gunman. Tariq stepped over me and shot the guy in the head.
I’d hit the hard tiled floor with my bad shoulder but I hardly even noticed the pain. I felt a knot of hatred in my belly as I leapt up. These fuckers had shot my dad and I wasn’t going to stop until every last one of them was dead.
“Fucking deathwish Terminator shit,” muttered Tariq.
I chambered another round and kept moving without acknowledging his sour disapproval. I thought: this must be what it feels like to be Rowles.
“Stryker,” I barked at Jamal, who was halfway down the stairs. He nodded and ran to the vehicle, still jammed in the front door. I heard gunfire but didn’t look back as Tariq and I walked into the school, guns raised. Past the staircase was a passage that led to the kitchen and the courtyard beyond it. Just as I was reaching forward to open the door, it swung open. I fired without hesitation, putting four rounds into the stomach of the soldier before me. Tariq opened fire beside me, sending a hail of bullets over the head of the falling soldier, wiping out the two men behind him. They fired back even as his bullets hit, but their shots went wide.
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