‘Jester?’

He saw a figure silhouetted against the door. Too large to be a kid. Then another hand touched him. And another. Something brushed his thighs. He smelt sour breath and the sickly sweet overripe smell of strangers. He lashed out wildly with his good hand, but it was no use. He had no weapon. He was surrounded. He’d broken into a strangers’ den.

He felt breath on his face, hot and rancid. He retched and swayed, his brain melting. There was a rush of movement, teeth on his neck, fingernails raking his face. He felt a terrible pressure in his head. The teeth at his throat were suffocating him.

Oh God …

Mercifully he passed out before the teeth tore through his skin, and his pure, clean, undiseased blood exploded from the constricted arteries.

49

Jester hadn’t planned to climb out of the window. He really hadn’t. He hadn’t planned to leave Alfie behind. But, when he’d pulled the window up and looked down, a plan had leapt into his mind as if it had been waiting there for him all along. It presented itself, clear and cold and perfect. Alfie was holding the strangers at the door, distracting them, and it would give him time to get well away.

He’d dropped the bits and pieces he’d been collecting to barricade the door and simply climbed out. Before he really knew what he was doing he was sprinting along the alleyway as fast as he could.

Surely it was right that one of them should survive rather than both getting killed. He was a kid and hadn’t the old song always said that children were the future? They had to live. They had to beat the grown-ups. They had to win, whatever it took. Make it through these dark times into the light of a better future.

Better one living than two dead.

It was down to each individual to look after himself.

And anyway. Maybe Alfie would be all right. He was a tough kid. Not stupid. Maybe he’d get away just like Jester had. It was up to him. Jester wasn’t responsible for anyone other than himself. If it was anyone’s fault, it was David’s. He hadn’t given Jester enough muscle. Tom and Kate? Well, they’d scarpered, hadn’t they? Blame them.

Blame anyone other than me.

And don’t go whining to God about it. It was pretty clear that there was no God up there, no kindly old gent looking down, keeping score in a notebook. You did good, you did bad, it didn’t make any difference, did it? This one’s going to heaven, this one’s going to hell, this one’s going to Disneyland.

No. God wouldn’t have let any of this shit happen. If you were going to believe in anything, then believe in the devil. He was much more real than God. Up there causing mischief. Laughing at the chaos he’d created.

Jester stopped running. His lungs were stinging and his legs felt rubbery. There were the beginnings of a stitch in his side.

Where was he?

No bloody idea.

Not true, Jester. You do know where you are.

In hell.

As usual.

He’d got away from the strangers, though, and that was all that mattered. With luck, any others in the area would have been attracted by all the noise and disturbance back there and he’d have the streets to himself for a while.

But were there any other kids around?

There had to be. It didn’t make any sense otherwise. Why would strangers stay in the area if there was no food? Kids and strangers were locked in a deadly relationship. Children were the only source of fresh food, but they were also the grown-ups’ greatest predators. That’s why, in the end, the strangers would lose. Human beings wouldn’t have survived for long if sheep had fought back, would they? Or cows …

Jester smiled at this thought while he stood getting his breath back.

There had to be some kids around somewhere.

But where?

He heard movement from the buildings on one side of the road. People moving about. Kids or grown-ups? You had to be careful. He sighed and moved off, plodding along the road until he was at a safe distance. After a couple of hundred metres he looked back. It was strangers. A small group of them had come out of the building and were coming after him.

He started up again, his trainers slapping down on the hard surface of the road, his patchwork coat flying out behind him, his satchel banging against his back.

He kept glancing behind him. The strangers were struggling to keep up, but he needed to put a lot of distance between him and them before he could risk holing up somewhere for the night. He careered round a bend and yelped as he almost ran straight into a stranger waddling along the other way. They knocked each other over, and Jester swore as his backside hit the deck.

He’d blundered right into the middle of a gang of about ten diseased grown-ups. He scurried backwards away from them. He’d dropped Shadowman’s club in the collision and would need to get to it quickly. He scrambled messily to his feet, shoved a mother out of the way and managed to get hold of the club just as a big father made a grab for him. He lashed out and whacked the father, who went down. At the same moment another mother knocked into him and the club was pulled out of his grasp. He punched the mother, then a father, and thrashed his way out of the knot of bodies.

And then he was running again.

He was on a wide, open road with big shops on either side and a fenced-off island down the middle. And as he ran he noticed something else. At first he thought it must be a mirage, created by his panicking brain, offering up a false hope of safety. But he looked again.

Candlelight. Flickering in a sort of courtyard. He turned and aimed his steps towards it, vaulting over the railings in the centre of the road.

He careered into the courtyard. Candlelight could mean only one thing. Kids. There wasn’t any other explanation, was there? Unless it was a fire. But even that would help. He could use fire against the strangers.

The light was coming from inside a Morrisons supermarket. The windows were secured and barricaded, and behind the barricades was the candlelight. Civilization. He banged on the windows and shouted to be let in.

At first there was no response then a voice called down to him from the roof.

‘Get away from here. We don’t let no one in.’

‘You have to!’ Jester pleaded. ‘I’m being chased by strangers. There’s hundreds of them out here, grown-ups.’

‘That’s why we ain’t opening the doors, mate. Piss off. We don’t want you here.’

‘You can’t lock me out!’

‘Can’t we?’

‘Let me in, please …’

‘We’ll kill you if we have to.’

‘You can’t …’

Then Jester felt a sting in the side of his head and rubbed his scalp. Something had hit him – already a lump was coming up. Then another sting as something hit his shoulder. They were throwing stuff at him from the roof. Stones and bits of wood. He backed away.

‘Bastards!’ he screamed, and they swore at him.

Before they could throw anything else he retreated back out into the street, rubbing his head. More strangers had appeared. He glanced quickly in both directions, looking for any signs of light. If there was one gang of kids living around here, there might be more. He might find someone with a warmer welcome.

There! Could it be? Yes? More lights, shining out from another supermarket further along the road. He recognized the sign – Waitrose. It was where his parents had shopped before the disaster.

He ran towards it, bowling three strangers over along the way, desperate now. If he got the same response here, he was dead. The road was filling with strangers who were pouring in from all directions. And they were thickest around Waitrose.

He forced himself to move faster, his feet hammering on the tarmac, and he slammed against the front windows of the shop, roaring for help at the top of his voice, feeling like his lungs were going to burst. His shout for help turned into a scream as a mother lunged at him, teeth bared in a snarl. He battered her away and banged again on the windows.