The End (34 page)

‘Move,’ said Sam. ‘Do something.’ He shoved Paddy, who raised his spear but didn’t budge. Sam
could see just how scared he was, pale and sweating and wide-eyed. Weirdly, Sam didn’t feel any fear himself, just a horrible numbness, a feeling that he’d always known this was going to happen and there was nothing he could do about it.

Wiki and Jibber-jabber pushed in behind Paddy who was still frozen with fear.

‘Go on,’ said Wiki. ‘We have to save Zohra and Froggie and
get back to the museum.’

‘Yeah,’ said Paddy, psyching himself up. ‘Come on. Let’s go.’

And finally he started to walk, his spear held out in front of him.

He broke into a run, and the others ran too, their feet slapping on the hard road surface.

The grown-ups got closer.

And closer.

Sam could see them more clearly now. He wasn’t very good at judging, but he thought
there were maybe twenty or thirty of them, a mix of fathers and mothers. All ages. Their clothes were tattered, their skin smeared, crusty with dirt, covered in huge wet sores. Some were missing
hands, even whole arms; most were bald, and now Sam saw that some of them carried weapons. He wanted to stop running – he was at the front with The Kid and Paddy, caught up in the charge. Scared
at last. So scared his head was throbbing. He had a short spear of his own that a girl at the museum had made for him. The Kid was armed with his two long knives. The other Youngbloods had a mix of spears and swords, but none of them was very good at using them.

Paddy let out a war cry – ‘
Raaaaaaaargh!
Cúchulainn!’

His bucket helmet was wobbling on his head. Too big. He tried
to straighten it and it fell off, clattered into the road, useless.

Sam saw a sicko turn. He was dressed in a Manchester United shirt and had a face that seemed more intelligent than the others. It looked almost like he was smiling. He twisted his head in a weird way and the other grown-ups stopped what they were doing and came round to face Paddy’s charge.

Paddy couldn’t stop
now even if he’d wanted to. He smashed into the sickos, wildly slashing with his spear. It was called the belly ripper and – whether it was skill or luck – it did what it was supposed to do. It tore through the stomach of a thin father, spinning him round and knocking him down, spilling his innards on to the ground.

And then Sam came in, looking up at the grown-ups who towered
over him, and he knew that he was never going to get out of this.

48

Sam couldn’t see what anyone else was doing; he was having to concentrate too hard on not getting hurt. He was surrounded by grown-ups, ducking under swinging arms, backing away from clumsy swipes with various weapons. He had two things on his side, his size and his speed. Most of the grown-ups were hardly aware that he was down there, dodging about among their legs. They
moved slowly, barging into each other, like a herd of cows bunched up in the corner of a field. Only the father in the Manchester United shirt seemed to have any intelligence. He was obviously the one in charge. The rest of them were simply doing what he wanted them to. He had two short steel rods with sharp ends, one in each hand. He was waving them about and clashing them together,
like a toddler going nuts in a playgroup.

Sam didn’t bother trying to attack. He was only using his spear to defend himself, poking it at anyone who came close. What more could he do? He didn’t have the strength to do much damage. He was just trying to find out what had happened to Froggie and Zohra. He’d become separated from The Kid, but he didn’t worry too much about him. The
Kid was a survivor. He’d lived out on the streets by himself. He knew what to do in a fight.

Sam pushed forward, between two mothers, one of whom appeared to be wearing an old wedding dress, and found himself in a more open piece of road. And there was Zohra, crouching over her brother, who was lying on his back. Not moving. She was using her back as a shield, protecting Froggie
from three scrawny and ragged mothers who were clawing at him.

Sam went in. Anger had taken over now, no time for fear, no worrying about his size. He jabbed his spear at a mother, got her in the neck, and then The Kid was at his side.

‘Shish kebab, Cisco Kid, Sister Ray!’ he shouted, killing a second mother. The two of them then took on the third one, who had worked out what
was happening and reared up at them, ready to attack, belching a foul blast of hot breath at them. She stuck her tongue out; it was huge and bulging with growths.

‘Snickersnee, that’s a pointless answer and a pointed stick!’ shouted The Kid, rushing at her, and without thinking Sam was with him and the mother went down under their attack, Sam stabbing again and again with his
spear.

‘We got them,’ said The Kid. ‘They going down like kettles. Keep close, I’ll watch your back, you wash my socks …’

Next moment Wiki and Jibber-jabber were there, as inseparable as Sam and The Kid. Sam went over to Froggie. He was badly wounded, but still alive, thank God. Blood was coming from beneath his small body and forming a puddle in the road. His face was very
pale and he was shaking; his mouth moved, but no sound came out. Zohra was crying and trying to comfort him, totally unaware of the battle going on around her.

‘It’s all right, Froggie,’ she was saying. ‘It’s all right, baby. I’m here. I won’t leave you. I’ll never leave you.’

And then the grown-ups were surging towards them, the guy in the football shirt at their head. But
Paddy and the others came in from the side and formed up with Sam and The Kid, making a circle round Froggie, facing outwards. They weren’t able to do much more than keep back those sickos who tried to get close.

‘We’re trapped,’ said Jibber-jabber. ‘There’s too many of them.’

‘Like I can’t see that,’ said Paddy angrily.

‘I’m just saying.’

‘Kill the guy in the Man U
shirt,’ said Wiki. ‘Kill him and the others won’t know what to do. He’s their leader.’

‘How do we do that?’ said Paddy, trying to turn his fear into anger.

Sam checked who was with them. At least three other Youngbloods were missing, and there was still no sign of the two gatekeepers. Another movement among the grown-ups; a gap opened up, and Sam caught a glimpse of a small
body lying in the road, a group of sickos clustered round it. He couldn’t tell who it was.

He felt like cursing Paddy, turning his own fear to anger. This was all Paddy’s fault, but what difference would it make? Getting cross. How would it help? If they were all going to die, best die as friends.

And then something changed. There was shouting, the sound of fighting, and the
grown-ups broke apart enough for Sam to see that Whitney had arrived with some other kids from the museum, including the other two guards from the gates. They were better armed than Paddy’s group, bigger, more experienced fighters. They cut
through the grown-ups towards the Youngbloods who were all shouting and screaming for help.

‘We’re getting you out of here,’ said Whitney.
Sam could see she was furious. Paddy had put everyone at risk. And then Whitney saw Zohra kneeling over Froggie.

‘Get up,’ she said. ‘We gotta go.’

‘I’m not leaving Froggie,’ said Zohra. ‘He’s hurt.’

‘Out of my way.’ Whitney squatted down and picked Froggie up in her big arms. Sam saw that his back was soaked with blood.

‘Move it,’ Whitney screamed and they were
off, trying to get clear of the grown-ups. Sam went after her. Praying that it was over. That they were safe. More and more grown-ups were arriving, though, streaming in from the side-streets. And they were all heading for Sam. At least that was how it felt to him. It freaked him out, and the next moment he found his way ahead blocked.

Blocked by Man U, his eyes fixed on Sam, as
if he recognized him. The father’s head jerked from side to side really quickly, spraying spit everywhere, like he was having a fit.

The other grown-ups were ignoring Whitney and the others, who had gone on ahead. Only The Kid was with Sam. Sam tried to swallow, but it hurt too much. His mouth was horribly dry. He jerked his spear point around, trying to protect himself, and
The Kid was in and out, moving fast, cutting and stabbing and jumping clear.

‘Help Sam!’ he called. ‘Help us!’ But nobody could hear.

‘We’re stuck,’ said Sam.

‘Duck!’ The Kid shouted and Sam looked round just in time to see that Man U had thrown one of his steel rods. It turned end over end in the air and Sam hurled himself
to one side. The rod went past him and got
a mother in the eye, embedding itself in her head.

‘Remember what Wiki-dicky said,’ The Kid shouted. ‘Get the leader.’

Yes
, thought Sam. If it was the last thing he was ever going to do, he was going to kill the bastard in the Man U shirt.

Sam had always been an Arsenal fan.

He roared and screamed and charged, somehow got under the guy’s flailing arms, and rammed his spear
into his chest and let go. Man U fell backwards with a grunt and a hiss of air and the others stopped what they were doing, as if confused, suddenly dull-eyed and purposeless. The Kid cut a path clear and dragged Sam away.

‘Run,’ he shouted. ‘Run like the wind in the willows!’

And Sam was running, The Kid by his side, and there was Whitney, lagging behind, slowed down by the
weight of Froggie. Zohra was with them, one hand on Froggie’s lolling head. Sam and The Kid caught up.

‘We’re nearly there,’ said Sam and Whitney turned to grin at him.

‘I’m gonna kill the lot of you when we get back,’ she said and then she gasped, stumbled, fell down on her knees, dropped Froggie and crashed on to her face. One of Man U’s rods was sticking out of her back.

Sam stopped, his breath frozen in his chest. Looked round. Man U was still alive, standing there, covered in blood, Sam’s spear still in him. He took two steps towards Sam and then collapsed.

‘Froggie, no!’ Zohra screamed, and she ran to where her brother lay still and lifeless. There was no more blood to come out of him. Sam went to Whitney. She was dead
too. He swore, but The
Kid was already tugging at his arm. There was nothing Sam could do. Even without their leader, the grown-ups were steadily advancing, not fast, but fast enough to be on them soon.

‘What do they want?’ said Sam. ‘Why don’t they stop?’

‘They want you, small fry,’ said The Kid. ‘They’re drawn to you like moths to a flaming light bulb.’

Sam knew he was right. This had all
been about him. He should have stayed inside. They should all have stayed inside.

He looked at Zohra. She was holding Froggie.

‘Leave him,’ he said. ‘We have to go.’

‘I won’t,’ she said, her face wet with tears and smudged with blood. ‘He’s my brother. He needs me.’

Sam fought back tears of his own, remembering Ella, who he’d promised to look after. She was probably
dead too. Her small body lying broken and forgotten in a field somewhere. He went to Whitney, took hold of the steel rod, closed his eyes and pulled it out. When he opened his eyes again, Paddy was with him.

‘I’m the leader,’ he said. ‘I’m the warrior. I’ll fight them. I’ll protect you, Zohra.’

‘They’re too many,’ said Sam. ‘We have to get Zohra back. We have to run.’

Paddy wasn’t listening. He gave his war cry and ran at the advancing grown-ups, slashing with his belly ripper. One went down, two, three. Paddy was winning …

And then Paddy was down. Hit from behind by a sicko with a rock. Sam wondered if this was how legends were born, from ugly, scrappy, horrible fights like this. Talked up into tales of heroic acts and deeds. Creating a lie
of bravery and glory.

In a moment Paddy had disappeared under a pile of grown-ups, who were tearing at him with their teeth and nails.

The Kid was tugging at Sam’s sleeve again.

‘We can’t do anything, sport,’ he said. ‘Except run.’

‘Zohra.’

But Zohra wasn’t listening. She was lying with Froggie on the tarmac, her arms wrapped round him.

Sam let The Kid pull
him away. And they stumbled and staggered down the road towards the museum gates. Sam risked glancing back once. Zohra hadn’t moved. And then he couldn’t see her any more. She was swallowed up by the horde, which now filled the road from side to side.

And still the rest came on, eyes fixed on Sam.

Sam ran.

They made it back to the museum where the bigger kids were waiting
for them, shouting at them to hurry. They dragged Sam and The Kid through the gates and slammed them shut. Locked them. A lot of museum kids were lined up along the fence. Sam saw that they had bows and missiles, javelins, crossbows, slings.

As soon as the grown-ups came close enough, the kids started to fire at them. Many went down, but still they kept on coming, until they
were pressing against the fence from the other side, and the kids were stabbing at them through the bars. One or two grown-ups had enough intelligence to climb the fence, but they were easily cut down or knocked back. Sam looked along the row of hideous, distorted faces squeezing between the iron bars.

And he went cold.

Man U was still alive. Pushing against the railings as
if he could somehow force himself through. Grey jelly was
oozing from his nose, his mouth, his eyes, his ears, the wound in his chest. Sam went over to him.