This would make quite a scene in a film. The grotesque swollen-headed father with the glasses, his diseased minions, the zombie spectators. All it lacked was flaming torches to give it the full Hollywood pagan-ceremony treatment.

As if on cue, a gout of flame shot up from the back of one section of seating. It seemed to be coming from one of the hospitality suites where privileged guests could watch the matches while tucking into a nice lunch. The fire spread and lit up half the stadium and then Shadowman was amazed to see a father, engulfed in flames from head to foot, come crashing out into the open, and tumble down three rows of seats. The strangers on the pitch were mesmerized. They turned as one to gaze dumbly at the rising column of smoke, and the flames that leapt and sparked as they spread along the back of the stands.

The strangers who were nearest to it were thrown into a panic. They spilt out of their seats and ran in all directions. Shadowman’s gang, the more organized ones, were calmer, but he could sense fear taking hold of them.

Something was attacking their den. For the moment they forgot about Shadowman and stood there, confused and angry. It was all the opportunity he needed, but if he tried to run would his legs betray him again? Would his brain short-circuit and send him flip-flapping to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut?

He had to risk it. He wasn’t going to be offered a better chance of escape than this, and if he delayed a moment longer the strangers might remember him and get back to work.

Now or never, Shadowman.

What did Nike say? Just do it …

He took a couple of deep breaths, filled his lungs with oxygen and lurched forward. He took a few wobbly steps and his legs held up.

Now run!

He broke away from the gang and aimed for the nearest stand. He wasn’t about to go back into the players’ tunnel – it was too dark in there and he had no idea where it led – but there would be openings in the stands leading to the exits. It would mean getting in among the strangers. He just hoped that they’d be confused and groggy and panicked.

Miracle of miracles, his legs stayed firm, his brain stayed focused. He vaulted over an advertising hoarding into the seats and felt a rush of life and energy surging through his body.

So long, suckers … The Shadowman is out of here!

51

‘You can’t leave.’

‘We can and we are.’

DogNut was standing by the diplodocus in the main hall at the museum with Courtney. Morning light was streaming in through the windows. They’d packed their gear and had been about to round up Felix and Marco when Justin had appeared, bustling in from one of the side galleries. Now he was hyped up and anxious.

‘You give us one good reason why we can’t go,’ said DogNut.

‘You promised me you’d tell your stories to Chris Marker, for The Chronicles of Survival.’

‘Did I? I don’t remember promising nothing.’

Justin grunted and rubbed his scalp, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

‘Well, yeah, OK,’ he said. ‘Maybe you didn’t promise, but I asked and I thought you’d agreed.’

‘Didn’t agree to nothing.’

‘It’s important to us,’ Justin pleaded.

‘We need to get back, Justin,’ said DogNut apologetically. ‘We’ve done what we set out to do. We found you lot – now we need to go and tell them back at the Tower. They’re the ones who need to hear our stories.’

‘Yes,’ said Justin, ‘I appreciate that, but, well, we’ve shown you everything we’re doing here, and … and the least you can do is tell us how you’ve survived. It would be a huge help to us.’

‘What d’you mean?’ said DogNut. ‘I don’t see how it helps anything.’

‘It’s a very valuable resource.’

‘A very valuable resource,’ said DogNut, mocking Justin’s nasal tones.

Justin’s face flushed red, and he raised his voice angrily. ‘You can take the piss, DogNut,’ he snapped, ‘but we happen to think it’s important.’

‘Well, how long’s it going to take?’ said DogNut.

‘All you have to do is tell your stories, starting with what you can remember of when the disease first struck, and finishing with your arrival here.’

‘Yeah,’ said DogNut. ‘So I’ll ask you again, brother, how long do you think it’ll take?’

‘I don’t know, a few hours? They’ve got to write it all down.’

‘A few hours?’ DogNut’s face was a picture of amazement. ‘But we need to make an early start. That ain’t gonna work.’

‘Leave tomorrow,’ Justin pleaded. ‘What difference will one more day make? It would mean a lot to us … It would mean a lot to me. I’ll give you stuff for the journey, food and water. If you’ll just do this one thing for me.’

‘I don’t know …’

‘He’s right, Dog,’ said Courtney. ‘What difference would one more day make?’

‘I thought it was you that wanted to go!’ DogNut protested.

‘I don’t mind.’

‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Justin. ‘If you agree to stay and tell us your stories, I’ll give you an escort. I’ll get Robbie to pick some fighters and go with you, at least some of the way.’

‘On one condition,’ said DogNut.

‘What?’

‘Jackson comes along. That girl is well hard.’

‘Deal.’

DogNut sighed and put down his pack. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Agreed. One more day. We’ll talk to Chris.’

‘Thanks, DogNut,’ said Justin, and he shook DogNut’s hand.

52

The squirrel ran across the grass, its body and tail moving in a series of flowing S shapes. It stopped. Sat up on its hind legs, its whole body shaking. There was no way it could go any further in this direction. It turned and darted back the way it had come. Again its path was blocked. It raced off in another direction. It was panicking, running shorter and shorter distances as the net tightened round it. Scurrying, stopping, turning, twitching, jumping …

The gym bunnies weren’t going to let it reach a tree. They’d been chasing it for the last half-hour, and they were determined to catch it.

They were getting used to the sunlight, staying out longer each time, growing braver. They’d risked coming into the park this morning. There was nobody else around and their hunger was driving them crazy. They’d stripped bark off the trees and pulled up plants to get at the roots. And then they’d seen the squirrel. Scared it out of a tree down on to the ground.

Now it was surely trapped.

The mother moved forward. It would be her kill. She held her knife tight in one hand. All she had to do was grab the animal and slit its throat. It skittered away across the grass, chittering and squeaking. She dived, missed. Another sicko lunged. Another kicked it and it flew back towards the mother who at last managed to get a hand to it. She held it up to show the others, grinning. She was proud of them. They were learning to work together properly. They were a team.

The animal wriggled in her grasp, shrieking, scratching and biting her fingers. She put the knife to its scrawny neck and cut deep, severing its head. The bright red blood foamed out and she quickly put it to her mouth, drinking it down, feeling it hot against her tongue and lips.

A father picked up the head and popped it into his mouth, crunching it like a sweet.

The mother sat on the grass and stretched the animal’s small body out, stuck the knife into its belly to get at the guts.

It felt so good she smiled with joy. The knife was helping her think straight. The familiar feel of it in her hands was awakening old memories. She was becoming stronger, clearer-headed, more able to hunt and kill.

She stuffed the warm guts into her mouth, tossed the squirrel’s body to her pack and stood up.

Raised the knife to the sky. Felt the energy from it pulse through her body. Stared at it, clutched in her ragged fingers. Her eyes twitching in her head as they tried to focus on the blade. Transfixed by the light that lanced off it. Letting it flicker across her eyes. Showing the others in her pack that she wasn’t afraid. That she had the willpower to resist.