The Fury (9 page)

Brick sat on the wooden steps that led up to the log flume in Fursville, shaking so much that his elbows kept slipping off his knees. He’d ridden straight back to the park after the incident at the garage –
they tried to kill me, they
all
wanted to kill me
– almost taking himself clean out by turning off the main road at sixty-three miles per hour, coming within a hair’s width of decorating the smiley-faced ‘Welcome to Hemmingway, Please Drive Carefully!’ sign with his brains.

The crowd had followed him down the road, their faces twisted and contorted in his single rear-view mirror, their eyes angry white blisters. They’d actually
trampled
each other trying to get to him. The car that had almost knocked him off his bike had tried to come after him too, but it had veered off the road into a garden after a dozen yards or so, the driver kicking his way out of the broken windscreen and pursuing on foot.

By the time they faded out of sight there had been twenty people there, men, women, kids, grandparents. Brick had seen all this with absolute clarity – every bared tooth, every clenched jaw, every snatching, greedy finger – the kind of eagle-eyed, slow-motion action replay focus you only got when your life was hanging by a thread.

He was paying the price for it now, though. His body felt like it had used up every last resource. Used up or wasted – he’d chucked his guts the moment he came through the hedge, last night’s popcorn nothing but a milky foam. Now he felt the same way he did when he was really ill, the light too bright, his whole body trembling like it had once upon a time on the wacky walkway that was almost visible from where he was sitting.

The worst of it was that somewhere en route he’d lost his phone and his wallet. They had probably slipped from his pocket when he’d almost come off the bike, or maybe it had happened during the attack in the garage. The phone he didn’t mind so much, but dropping his wallet could be bad – it meant the police would know he’d been in Hemmingway. From there it didn’t take a genius to think of searching the old theme park. With any luck it had fallen into a bush, or down a rabbit hole. But luck wasn’t the sort of thing that came willingly to Brick Thomas.

His elbow slipped off his leg again, jolting his head. He replaced it, shivering, his chattering teeth like hail on a tin roof, the loudest thing in the park. He was shaking so much he felt like a pneumatic drill, like he was about to hammer himself into the ground, and he pushed himself to his feet, pacing.

What the hell was going on?

There was an explanation banging on the door of his head, yelling at him, but he was refusing to pay it any attention. He was refusing because it was stupid, even though he’d seen stuff like this in a million movies – people turning feral, ripping into their loved ones. Usually it happened when the dead came back to life, but not always. Sometimes it was a virus or something, like in that film Lisa loved,
28 Days Later
.

Zombies, great thinking, Brick, you’re a genius
.

But that was exactly it: zombies were something from the telly, from video games. They didn’t exist in real life, they
couldn’t
exist, it was impossible.

Then what was it? What had turned Lisa against him and then invited the whole goddamned world to take a shot? Yeah, he had one of
those
faces, but it wasn’t that bad. It wasn’t
Frankenstein’s monster
bad, bad enough to rile the mob.

As far as he could tell, there were three ways of finding out. First, he could call his dad, ask him what was going on, see if it was happening in the city too. Of course that was no longer an option because his mobile was gone and the nearest payphone was –
Ha-ha, Brick, try not to laugh at the irony
– back in the garage he’d just fled from. Second, he could clean the puke from his saddle, get back on his bike and head somewhere else, back into Norwich maybe. This wasn’t really an attractive option either, because if a garageful of people had almost managed to kill him, then a whole cityful would certainly succeed. It felt a bit like diving into a shark-infested ocean to see whether there was a Great White hiding beneath your boat.

That left door number three: the
basement
door. His laptop was in there. It had been on the table when he and Lisa had cartwheeled over it, so he didn’t even know if it was still okay – the fact that she obviously hadn’t used it to email anyone for help wasn’t a great sign. But maybe she just hadn’t thought of it. Or maybe the dongle had come loose and she couldn’t get it to work again.

Either way, if he could get in and snatch his computer then he’d be able to search the news sites, see what was going on. He had a store of food and drink in there too; not much, but enough to keep him going for a day or two.

The thought of opening that door, of seeing what was inside, made him shudder harder and he had to sit back down on the steps. The wooden frame of the flume creaked overhead, expanding in the fierce midday heat. The sun was behind the big wheel, painting the park in a cobweb of fine, dancing shadows, so fierce that Brick had to close his eyes to stop the itch of light on his retinas. For a wonderful, mesmerising instant when he opened them again Fursville looked just like it had a decade ago, the haze shimmering from the cracked earth giving the illusion of movement, of people. It was so strong that Brick could even hear the song of the arcade machines from the pier, remarkably loud as they travelled on the warm summer breeze.

Then he remembered Lisa, throwing herself at the door so hard that he had heard the snap of wood – or bone – from the top of the stairs, even with his hands over his ears, even past his wretched sobs. The illusion vanished, leaving him alone.

Brick stood again, his twitching body unable to stay still. If he was going to do this, he had to do it now.

He set off towards the pavilion, both hands clenched in his tangled hair like he was a prisoner being marched at gunpoint. He reached the fire door, thinking
Please God, don’t let this be the last time I see the sun
as he squeezed under the chain. He didn’t let himself stop, knowing that if he paused for so much as a second he’d never get moving again. He’d end up like one of the plastic statues outside, the grinning squirrels in the crazy golf, frozen until the end of time.

He jogged to the door at the top of the basement staircase and peered down into that throat of darkness. The bottom corner of the lower door had been bent out from the wall, but it was still closed, the metal bar firmly in place. No light crept through it now. He couldn’t hear anything, but it didn’t stop him wanting to put his fingers in his ears and hum a tune at full volume as he stepped softly downwards. If he couldn’t hear her, then maybe it would all be okay.

He put his ear to the door, his breath locked tight, feeling like he was about to throw up again – not food, this time, but his heart, which was so far up in his throat he could taste each beat like copper on his tongue. It was silent in there, as if he had his ear against a coffin lid.

Lisa?
he said, realising only after a moment or two that he hadn’t spoken out loud. He struggled to
unblock
his windpipe. ‘Lisa?’ He barked the word out this time, making himself jump. It sounded like it had been loud enough to bring the roof down. He held his breath again, listening.

There was movement inside the basement; a noise like something heavy being dragged across the ground.
A torso,
Brick thought.
It sounds like somebody moving a corpse
. There was a quiet cry, a kitten’s mewl, followed by silence.

At least she was still alive. The knowledge filled Brick with equal amounts of relief and terror. Alive but weak, perhaps. He might be able to open the door, run in, grab what he needed and get out before she even really noticed he was there.

He went to call her name again, then thought better of it. In his head he counted down,
three
 . . .
two
 . . . and without waiting for
one
he kicked out at the bar, sending it clattering to the floor. He wrenched open the door, uttering a short, desperate cry of his own. Then, fists clenched so hard his nails were like scalpels in his palms, he stepped into the basement.

Cal crouched on the grass, the sun trying to peel open his head, the heat drumming on his skull –
thump-thump . . . thump-thump . . . thump-thump . . .
– wondering why the pain had gotten so bad in the space of a couple of hours. He really did feel like he was about to puke, not just the too-much-milkshake nausea he’d had last night but something else. It was like he needed to purge something poisonous from his body, to vomit it up from every cell. He felt that if he could do that then maybe the turbine that was roaring in his head would finally stop.

The shrill call of the whistle made him wince, and he squinted up to see Mr Lyons jogging onto the pitch. Both teams were waiting for the game to start, eyeballing each other over the halfway line. Cal had gone to the changing rooms as normal, wondering if anyone would mention what had happened yesterday on the plaza. Nobody had, but the way his mates wouldn’t meet his eye, gazing at the floor as they walked outside, was evidence enough that they were ashamed or embarrassed.

Cal reached down and grabbed the bottle of Dr Pepper by his foot, finished it off and tossed it to the nearby sideline. Behind it was the pitch’s only stand, and it was packed – 200 kids waiting for the match to begin. The usual suspects were once again in the front row, Eddie sitting in between Megan and Georgia. For once, Georgia didn’t have her book with her and was joining in with the chants. The noise was exhilarating.

He looked at the clock. 12.00. Chris did a few keepy-uppies before placing the ball on the centre spot. Lyons blew for the game to start and Cal charged into the opposition side of the pitch. It didn’t take long for the ball to find him, a clever volley from Steven. Cal controlled it, knocking it ahead and chasing, feeling like he was running at the speed of sound. He heard someone yell ‘man on’ and stopped abruptly, trapping the ball as the defender flew past. Then he turned and scanned the pitch for white shirts, lobbing the ball in towards the box.

It wasn’t his best pass, granted, and one of the other team intercepted, heading it clear. Still, it was pretty obvious that it was going to be a good game. An
easy
game.

The other team were pressing forward and Cal jogged after them, happy to let the defence handle it. Jack, the keeper, caught a shot and booted the ball upfield. The crowd was less noisy now, nothing more than a handful of chants and insults hurled onto the pitch. They were probably saving their breath for the goals. Cal glanced over as he ran, waving at Eddie and Megan and Georgia. They were looking right at him but none of them returned the gesture.

Actually,
everyone
in the stands seemed to be looking right at him. They were facing the sun, so their eyes were narrow slits in their faces, but even so he could feel their gaze crawling over his skin like fingers, the sensation making him cold despite the heat. He shivered, more pain detonating right behind his forehead.
Of course they’re looking at me
, he thought as he turned away.
Everybody loves Callum Morrissey.

Up the other end of the pitch Nas was closing in on the goal, Jack trying to make himself as big as possible to stop the shot. His two centre-backs, Sam and Sprout, should have been chasing but they were just standing there, like they didn’t quite know what to do with themselves.

They were both staring at Cal.

Thump-thump . . .

Thump-thump . . .

Thump-thump . . .

Confusion was making the engine in his head rev even harder, battering against the soft flesh of his brain.

‘Go on,’ he yelled. ‘Tackle him!’

More of the players were turning to face him now. Nas had actually frozen outside the six-yard box even though it was just him and the keeper, even though nothing was stopping him taking the shot. The kid’s head was twisted round too far as he fixed his eyes on Cal. Even Mr Lyons was looking his way, his whistle clamped between his teeth. It was quiet enough in the stands for Cal to be able to hear the whistle warble softly every time the teacher exhaled.

Jack took a couple of steps towards the ball then stumbled to a halt, as if his batteries had just run out. He raised his head, his eyes dark despite the sunlight on his face. Jack was the last. Now every single person was looking at Cal. The only sound was the soft whisper of the whistle, almost lost behind the hammer blows inside his head.

‘What?’ he asked, his voice ridiculously loud against the unnatural canvas of silence. He turned to the crowd. People were standing, pushing themselves out of their seats. The way they moved reminded Cal of a flock of birds, how they all seemed to do the same thing at the same time without being told. Two hundred or so people swayed as one, their gaze so intense it seemed to push Cal down into the warm soil.

It’s a reality TV show
, he thought as he scanned the pitch, the players like statues. No, like
gargoyles
, their lips pulled back, their teeth clenched, their eyes bulging, so full of anger and madness.
I’m being filmed, right now. This is all a set-up,
Jackass
or something like that. Just be cool, Cal, you don’t want to look like a loser
.

And it
had
to be that, didn’t it? How could it be anything else?

But something in his head, something buried deeper than the ache, was screaming at him. It was just about the oldest, simplest, most instinctive message the body was capable of sending.

Run.

And Cal would have, too, if the pulse of agony in his head hadn’t vanished –
thump-thump . . . thump-thump . . . thump
– gone so suddenly that it was as if somebody had thrown a switch. He’d had the headache for so long that for a second or two its absence was almost worse, like not having it meant there was something missing in his brain. But there was no denying the relief.

‘It’s gone,’ he said, wondering if, when they watched this episode of whatever prank show he was starring in, they’d be able to spot the exact moment when the razor wire was pulled from his brain. ‘Hey, guys, it’s . . .’

His words dried up as Mr Lyons starting running towards him – not jogging,
sprinting
– his face knuckled into a fist of rage. Others followed, as if the teacher pulled them behind him. A peal of thunder rose up from the other direction and Cal swung round to see the crowd surging from the stands, a tidal wave that crashed and spat down the aisles, spilling over the seats. There was so much movement that the ground was shaking.

He managed one more empty smile. It lasted no more than a second, enough time for Cal to realise there were no cameras, there had been no cue for everybody to start running; enough time for him to hear that voice inside him, that raging, desperate animal cry which screamed,
RUN! RUN! RUN!

Enough time for him to understand with absolute clarity that if he didn’t obey that voice then he was going to die.

He lurched so hard that he almost tripped on his own feet, bolting up the middle of the pitch as the crowd surged onto it. He saw a couple of kids from the front row fall beneath the weight of the crowd, a wet, red explosion erupting briefly then lost in the surging mass of feet.

He ran faster than he thought possible, the adrenalin in his veins like nitrous oxide in a car, a shot of pure fuel, his arms and legs pistoning him across the school field. Cal risked a look over his shoulder to see Nas right behind him, spit hanging from his too-wide mouth, his eyes two hate-filled sores in his face as he gained ground. Behind him churned the crowd, a tsunami of flesh.

Cal put his head down, trying to speed up even though his lungs were already burning. He was fast, but he couldn’t manage an all-out sprint for long.

The main school building was in sight. If he could just get inside then somebody would stop this, one of the teachers or the headmaster. But even as the thought crossed his mind he saw a group of kids sitting outside the doors lift their heads, sniffing the air like lions scenting a gazelle. As one they scrambled to their feet, charging towards him, that same look of lunatic rage turning their faces into crude Halloween masks.

Cal angled off to the left, towards the bike sheds, his mind a hissing mess of white noise. There were more kids converging on him from the school doors. One of them screamed, a brittle shriek that was picked up by somebody in the crowd behind him, and Cal only realised how quiet they had been when they all started to cry out, the sound deafening, almost a physical force against his ears. It was all he could do not to collapse right there, clamp his hands over his head and just pray that it would be quick.

He heard rasping, jagged breaths right behind him, then something brushed his shoulder. Cal forced himself to think. He’d been studying martial arts for years now but every single thing he’d learned had somehow been sucked from his brain, dissolved by terror.

Nas reached again, and this time he snagged Cal’s shirt, yanking him so hard that he missed his footing. Cal fell, skidding on his knees, almost managing to push himself back up again before Nas thumped into him, sending them both sprawling. Nas pinned him and threw a punch that glanced off Cal’s jaw, not hard enough to hurt. He could hear the relentless pounding of feet, those banshee screams rising to a hideous crescendo.

Think!
screamed his brain, his body unable to draw breath. Flashing spots appeared in his vision, leaving charred black scars when they faded.
Do something or they’re going to kill you!

He bent and spread his legs beneath Nas’s weight, planting his feet firmly on the ground. Then he punched up with both arms, knocking Nas’s hands loose and trapping them beneath his own. At the same time he rolled his hip, pushing up with a grunt. Nas tumbled off, the murder never leaving his eyes. Cal lashed out, hitting him square in the throat as he jumped up.

Someone else was right there, reaching out for him, and Cal shoved the kid as hard as he could. He ducked under another pair of hands, plunged into shade as the crowd tried to surround him. It was like running into a forest of limbs: root-like feet tripped him, torsos like trunks blocked his way.

Cal threw himself at the only shard of sunlight that remained, breaking free, his whole body numb as he started to run again. He was right next to the school building now. One of the windows exploded outwards, a bloodied face squirming through teeth of broken glass. Cal scrambled past the bike sheds and up the narrow path along the side of the school. Straight ahead were the gates, and past them Rochester Street with its cars and its crowds. There was nothing but death that way.

To his side was a fence, and past that a strip of woodland. The trees there were spindly, too few to provide any cover. But what choice did he have?

He leaped at the fence, grateful that there was no barbed wire as he flopped clumsily over the top. Through the mesh he could see the crowd flood the passageway, a thrashing river that pushed itself against the wire, causing the posts to bend into the woodland. Megan was there, or something demonic that had once been Megan, her hands twisted into talons, straining for him.

Cal gulped down air, slipping and tripping over the rough ground. Somehow he ran, using the trees to push himself on until he hit the fence that backed onto Rochester Street. He climbed, slipped, climbed again, rolling head-first over it.

Hands reached through the wire, pinching his shirt, his flesh, driving him to his feet again. He heard an engine gun, looked up in time to see a car veer across the street straight at him. Through the sunlight-dazzled windscreen he could make out a face identical to the ones behind him, and it was the sight of this warped mask rather than two solid tons of silver SUV that made him dive to the side.

The car slammed into the fence, piling right through it into the crowd. Cal knew this because of the sounds, a song of muffled snaps. He looked back to see that people were pulling themselves over a mound of ruined bodies, twitching limbs, their eyes still blazing. One girl was crawling after him even though her left arm was no longer properly attached. She pulled it behind her like a baby dragging a toy.

Cal scanned the street as he limped onwards, his brain running in double-time, his body filled with lead. People were streaming from the Tesco supermarket opposite the school. More cars were accelerating up the hill, veering wildly from side to side. One smashed into a lamp-post, bending it at a forty-five degree angle. The driver, a middle-aged man, had opened the door and was stumble-running across the road, shrieking.

The car. It was his only chance.

Cal threw himself towards the man, waiting until he was close enough before unleashing a powerful Choy Li Fut kick. His football studs sank into the man’s face, almost making him do a full backwards flip. Cal raced for the car, throwing himself into the driver’s seat and closing the door just as the first of the Tesco shoppers reached him.

The engine had stalled. Cal pushed in the clutch and twisted the key the way he’d been taught in his driving lessons, and the engine roared to life. A woman was swinging her basket at the window, the glass already cracking. More shapes threw themselves at the doors and Cal engaged the central locking just in time. Someone had climbed onto the bonnet and was kicking at the windscreen.

Cal tried to wrestle the gear stick into reverse. It wouldn’t go. He felt it with both hands, finding a ring on the shift, pulling it up and allowing the stick to slot into place. He revved and let the clutch rise.

The engine stuttered, then cut out. The passenger window exploded, hands reaching in. There was no sunlight left inside the car, three more people now on the bonnet, so many on the roof that it was bowing inwards, the metal creaking. He turned the key again, forgetting to push in the clutch. The car juddered, people falling from it into the crowd.

Cal swore, pushing in the clutch, trying the ignition, revving it hard with his right foot. The whole car was rocking now as the people outside attempted to roll it over.