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  But I had answered his question truthfully when we first met.

  Yes, I wanted to live. So far, Dave Middleton’s way was the only way.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Organization

  Rebecca gave me my orders. The following day I found myself using a forklift truck to stack cases of beans in the warehouse. Kids of all ages, degutted by terror, worked like robots. I watched a sixteen-year-old hooligan with home-made tattoos cry his eyes out when Rebecca told him he wasn’t working hard enough. Poor bastard had been working his bollocks off.

  ‘Hi, Nick.’ Sarah smiled brightly.

  ‘Long time no see. Sleep well?’

  ‘Fine, thanks. Sorry, can’t stop. Too busy.’ She showed me the clipboard. ‘I’ve been promoted to admin. Bye.’

  I watched her go, blonde pony tail swinging sexily.

  PING! Miss Keene’s voice over the PA: ‘Beta team. Beta team. Break time. Recommence work 10.30.’

  ‘Hey, mate,’ I called to the red-eyed hooligan. ‘Which team have they put you in?’

  ‘Alpha.’

  ‘I’m Gamma. Are those Latin letters or names of atoms or what?’

  He was too scared to reply. He worked harder.

  As I shifted baked beans by the ton I kept an eye on the to-ing and fro-ing. More survivors joined the community. Most were brought in by the boys who patrolled the area on bikes. One fifteen-year-old girl had to be carried in, her face a bruised lump set with two staring eyes.

  Later, two teenagers ran into the compound. One had shit himself.

  They were taken for drinks and the regulation questionnaire. The steering committee were building an empire.

  PING! ‘Gamma team. Break time. Gamma team.’

  On the way to the canteen I saw Mr Genius Del-Coffey in his office. He lay back in a chair, feet on the desk, shoe laces hanging down. Piles of books, laptop computers. An Asian girl of about sixteen was reading to him from a book called Psychology Today. The door was wide open.

  Basically he was wanking off. And he wanted everyone to see.

  The canteen was full of kids drinking coke, but hardly anyone spoke. I found myself reading the staff club’s fixture lists for football and table tennis. Teams of men and women who were either dead or mad by now.

  PING! ‘Nick Aten to the delivery bay, please.’

  In Mash the medics were interrupted in their high jinks by the speakers announcing ‘Incoming wounded.’ I got incoming self-raising flour.

  I got there as Dave Middleton was legging up and down organizing kids to stack bagged potatoes.

  ‘Not in the dump bins, Katrina. Over by the doors – they need to be well ventilated. Hi, Nick. Sorry to have to buzz you down. We need to get the flour off the truck quick. Now, Sarah, can you make a note of—’

  Before I got a chance to reach the forklift a boy skidded his mountain bike in through the warehouse doors. He was panting hard.

  ‘Dave … It’s Mr Creosote. He’s back!’

  Chapter Nineteen

  Does It Always Have to Be This Way?

  The name Mr Creosote killed Dave’s Joy to the World smile. He slapped the clipboard against his leg. But he didn’t swear.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Down by the river footbridge.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Nine. They’re just hanging around.’

  Dave turned to me. ‘You see, it’s always the same pattern. They flock like birds. A couple arrive. Then one more. Then another three. A couple of hours later there’s a hundred. Only when there’s a certain number, a – a kind of critical mass, do they move in.’

  He seemed to be working it through for his own benefit so I just nodded as he talked.

  ‘Same routine as last time, Dave?’ asked the boy.

  ‘Let’s not be hasty. They might disperse. We can’t keep running every time we see Mr Creosote. John, go back and keep an eye on the bridge. Report back every fifteen minutes. Straight away if they start moving. Nick … There’s a path down to the river bank back there. I need you to go and keep an eye on the road on the far side of the river.’

  Dave disappeared to push the gang working on the barbed wire stockade around the store. We were building a fortress.

  The situation wasn’t dangerous at the moment. But my stomach tensed. When Mr and Mrs Creosote decided to move, they moved fast. I’d have been happier getting Sarah and her sisters into the car and ready to shift if we had to.

  Nevertheless, I cut down the path to the river.

  The River Don was wide and deep there. It was unlikely they’d swim across. Mr Creosote would walk the extra half mile down stream to the bridge then cross there.

  And there they were. Walking out of town, on the other side of the river, were the insane population of Doncaster.

  I found myself looking at each face. I was looking for mum and dad.

  Among the strangers, I did see some adults I knew. The guy who had the florist’s at the end of Lawn Avenue. The fat lady who worked in a town centre café. A bouncer from Trixies. I recognised them but whatever weird mind occupied their heads had altered the expressions on their faces. It pulled the muscles tight round their eyes so they scowled, like a stone in their shoe irritated them.

  They passed by, not looking across the river in my direction. I saw a cop with his face burnt down one side – it didn’t seem to bother him. He flowed by like the rest, eyes locked on something invisible above the heads in front of him.

  A few carried things on poles. I looked away.

  In the river a dead boy drifted by, white ribbons streaming out of his stomach to float in the water behind him.

  I turned my back on all this shit and rubbed my face.

  The mad people of Doncaster were coming to get us too. The Steering Committee’s barbed wire would not save us. The lunatics would roll over that like flood water.

  ‘Piss off … Why don’t you just fuck off and leave us alone!’ Before I knew what I was doing I was shouting and pitching stones at the mad bastards. A useless and loony thing to do. But I had to do something. I couldn’t take all this shit, shrug my shoulders and say ‘Oh dear.’

  Mr and Mrs Creosote took no notice. They walked on. The stones I threw fell short, splashing into the water.

  Ten minutes later a boy on a bike pedalled down like Lucifer himself wanted to chew on his left bollock.

  ‘Get yourself back up here … We’re moving out.’

  Rebecca and Dave were efficient organisers. Within half an hour we were ready to hit the road.

  Sarah, holding Vicki and Anne’s hands, followed me across to the Shogun.

  ‘Is this what it’s going to be like, Nick? Squatting somewhere for a few days, then those things forcing us to move on?’

  All along the convoy of trucks, buses and Land-Rovers, engines were bellowing. Blue smoke swirled around us.

  ‘Nick.’ Dave ran up, carrying a clipboard. ‘I’ve got you travelling with Jo over there in the yellow mini-bus. Sarah’s riding in the bus up front with her sisters.’

  ‘I’ve got the car. It’s got a full tank.’

  ‘It’s too small. It’s a waste of resources. Girls, hop out of the car and get on the bus up front. We’ve got to—’

  I held Dave’s arm. It felt as thin as a stick. ‘Dave. I’m taking my car. The girls ride with me.’

  He was going to – not argue with me – reason with me, but time was running out. Family Creosote was swarming over the footbridge.

  ‘Okay, okay. We’ll talk about it later … Jo, stick close this time. Don’t hang too far back.’ He went back to talk to the mini-bus driver as I climbed into the Shogun and crashed the door shut.

  Sarah looked at me. ‘That told him.’

  ‘Yeah. He’s going to have to watch that mouth doesn’t run away with him.’

  The convoy slid out of the retail park like a long, lumpy snake. We travelled slowly, bumper to bumper. Heads stretched out of windows looking for trouble.

  We needn’t
have looked for it. It came soon enough.

  Chapter Twenty

  They’re Chasing Us

  ‘Faster, Nick. They’re chasing us.’

  ‘Hurry up!’

  ‘They’re not chasing us, Anne … Vicki, calm down and stop jumping up like that.’

  ‘They’re frightened, Nick,’ said Sarah.

  ‘There’s nothing to worry about. They’re over a mile away. We’re driving away from them.’

  ‘Can’t you go any faster?’

  Through clenched teeth, I explained, ‘Vicki, you see this long line of trucks and buses? It’s a convoy. That means we can only go as fast as that truck in front.’

  The convoy, nose to tail, close as dogs smelling one another’s backsides, did a frustrating fifteen miles per hour. Orders from Miss Keene. She didn’t want anyone being left behind. We wouldn’t have left a tortoise behind at that speed.

  There were ten vehicles. Every vehicle but mine carried a number from 1 to 9. Number nine was the yellow mini-bus behind me at the back of the convoy. Number 1 was the bus leading the convoy. That contained the Steering Committee. They hadn’t time to fit all the vehicles with CBs otherwise we’d have had directives crackling over the speaker every 6.3 minutes.

  Sometimes the convoy would suddenly stop. Twice the truck in front shunted into the Land-Rover in front of it. What else could you expect from teenagers with a few hours’ tuition?

  Then we’d lumber off again, engines over-revving, gears crashing. We took a roundabout route to avoid the town centre. The houses looked abandoned now. We saw no one.

  I asked Sarah, ‘What now? Have they got a plan?’

  ‘The plan is to find somewhere safe for the community to settle. Their experience is that they find somewhere for a couple of days then Mr Creosote finds them, then they have to run for it again.’

  ‘Community? They think this is permanent, then?’

  ‘Martin thinks so.’

  ‘Martin Del-Coffey. Huh, praise be to God that he was spared, eh? Hell, what’s wrong now?’

  ‘It’s Dave,’ Vicki squealed. ‘He’s got out of the bus. He’s running away. Mr Creosote’s chasing him.’

  Sarah sat up. ‘He’s not being chased. He’s found a boy at the side of the road. He’s rescuing him.’

  ‘There’s Mr Creosote in a field over there.’ Anne pointed.

  ‘Anne, that’s a scarecrow. Uh … We’re moving again.’

  A pattern established itself. We’d drive along minor roads, then the convoy would bump to a stop. Dave would leg it across the road and come back with more kids. Once we stopped for a fifteen-year-old pushing his dead nephew along in a supermarket trolley. Another mile, then it was two girls on a wall. One soaked head to ankles in blood.

  Once Dave ran into a house and returned carrying a half-starved five-year-old girl.

  My own feelings sparked between irritation and admiration. Dave Middleton, the clean-living, church-going guy – the kind I detested. Yet he had the guts to go into houses where he could have walked into a roomful of lunatics. There was no doubting his dedication to saving everyone he could get his hands on.

  We drove on. Sometimes stopping as a kid climbed on the bus up front, plucked from certain death by Saint Dave of Doncaster.

  The suburbs fell away and we headed into open countryside.

  Sarah stretched her neck up to see into a field. ‘There’s one of the messages they mentioned.’

  ‘What messages?’

  ‘Those that Mr Creosote are making.’

  In the field hundreds of bottles had been laid in lines across the turf. We were high enough to see it formed a cross. As we drove by the bottles flashed like a heliograph in the sunlight.

  ‘Who do you think they are trying to contact?’ asked Vicki, her eyes big behind her glasses.

  ‘Sit down while I’m driving.’

  ‘They can’t be trying to contact us, that’s for sure,’ said Anne. They are trying to kill us.’

  Vicki said: ‘A girl told us that because we’ve been so sinful God has punished us by making our parents loony, and now they are sending these messages to God asking him to end the world.’

  I wanted to say one word: Bollocks.

  Sarah said gently, Those are just rumours … silly rumours.’

  ‘It’s true. The girl said that whenever Mr Creosote speaks it’s not his voice that comes out but God’s.’

  More bollocks. Mr and Mrs Creosote were just plain swinging through the trees gibbering like a crazy baboon. Nothing more than that.

  Sarah’s problems were more practical. The real worry is if someone falls sick. We’ve no medical skills. Even something like appendicitis’d be a killer now.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. The great Mr Del-Coffey will cut you open with one hand while holding a textbook in the other. No doubt composing an ode to the fall of civilization while he’s at it.’

  ‘Martin’s important to us now, Nick, and don’t you forget it. Last night he said the teachers are as good as dead, we have to teach ourselves now or the human race will become extinct.’

  ‘Last night? You and Del-Coffey?’

  ‘Yes, with Rebecca and Dave – we were discussing what we must do to establish a viable community.’

  ‘Sounds cozy.’

  She gave me a cutting look, then sat curling her hair round her fingers.

  I stared at the tail lights of the truck in front trying to guess what she was thinking and knowing the painful truth. Civilization can die tomorrow but jealousy’s here to stay.

  * * *

  We drove for another hour, looping round Doncaster. No one spoke. We stopped a couple more times. But I didn’t bother to see who got on Dave’s bus.

  ‘We’re going to a farm!’ Vicki’s voice pierced my ear. ‘Dave’s taking us to a farm.’

  The convoy pulled into a farm yard. A burnt-out tractor stood in front of the barn. Dave told us to stay put while he checked the buildings. Five minutes later we got the thumbs up.

  Dave loped up. ‘Nick, en route we found some older teenagers. You know all there is to know about trucks so would you mind giving them some tuition? We need more vehicles and drivers.’

  We walked up to number 1 bus as the door opened and the latest batch came out blinking into the sunlight.

  ‘I’ll introduce you to them, Nick. This is—’

  As the first one stepped off the bus I knew there was a God. And that God had made up his ubiquitous mind to torment me for every sin I had ever committed.

  ‘Tug Slatter.’

  Slatter leered through his tattoos. ‘Hello, sweetheart.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  They’re Coming to Get Me

  I woke in the back seat of the car to see the note under the wiper.

  Pencilled on the front of a piece of paper folded in half: NICHOLAS ATEN. I read the note and felt like I’d been kicked in the back.

  Nick.

  Come home. Urgent news for you.

  Love – mum & dad.

  ‘Slatter. Slatter! Wake up, you bastard.’

  ‘Piss off, Aten.’

  ‘Look at this. I said look at it.’

  He came out of the sleeping bag like a sullen bear. I shook the note in his face. ‘I’ve a good mind to shove this down your throat. With my boot.’

  ‘If you don’t take that thing away from my face I’m going to break your bastard neck.’

  He looked up. The eyes, flanked by tattooed blue birds, bore into me as aggressively as ever.

  ‘Aten. I don’t know what the fuck you are talking about.’

  ‘This. You stuck it under the wiper of the Shogun.’

  ‘What would I want to do that for?’

  ‘To get at me, that’s what for. Did you think I’d be stupid enough to think my parents would find me here and leave me a note?’

  ‘I didn’t do it.’

  ‘Course you damn well did.’

  ‘Is it my handwriting?’

  I knew Slatter�
��s moron style well enough. ‘No … But that doesn’t—’

  ‘Is it your mummy’s handwriting?’

  ‘Of course it isn’t.’

  The pause was a mistake. He read doubt in my face and lay back, laughing, his hands behind his head.

  ‘It’s not your handwriting, Slatter, but I know you got someone to do it.’

  Slatter didn’t reply. He stared up at the truck’s ceiling. It was his usual habit of suddenly switching off as if the world and people in it had disappeared.

  ‘What seems to be the problem here?’ The sixteen-year-old was one of Dave’s church chums.

  In a matter of fact way, Slatter said, ‘Fuck off.’

  Bible boy fucked off.

  ‘Saw your mother yesterday, Aten.’

  Jaw muscles tightening I glared at Slatter.

  ‘She looked in a bad way.’ He nodded solemn. ‘She’d been shagged by the town donkey.’

  It was one of his damn pointless comments designed to provoke you. I shook the note again.

  ‘If you do this again, I’ll kill you.’

  As I strode away furiously, I heard him say to himself, ‘It’s a good laugh. But I didn’t write the note.’

  I really wanted to kill the psychotic bastard. But I had a big problem. I believed he was telling the truth.

  We stood in line for breakfast which was cooked outside on camping stoves.

  I carried the note in my pocket; the words I carried in my head. Come home. Urgent news for you. Love – mum & dad

  One of Slatter’s sick tricks. Years of punishment had pumped a little cunning into his brain. He still had a pathological need to fight people, but he’d learnt to provoke them so they hit first. Then he could stand there in front of the probation officer/cop/judge and say, ‘He hit me first.’

  Worse than feeling the victim of Slatter’s sadism was doubt. Was the note genuine? The notes I’d seen at home. A piece of paper folded against the kettle: Nicholas. Then the message: Nick. Gone shopping. Meat pie for you. Love – mum. Or something like that. Of course the handwriting was different but there was something about the rhythm of the message that was the same.

  ‘Eggs and beans?’