The Queen of Sinister (29 page)

The other, near or far, near or far? She looked, looked, and saw, but not near at all. The shape flitted through the trees near the path with lethal purpose. It wasn't after her at all.

Desperation and horror burst in her mind. Carlton was turning; he'd heard a noise.

Caitlin threw herself forward with wild urgency, struggling with her bow, trying to notch an arrow. But her reactions were too slow, and she was all over the place, as though drunk. She felt herself slipping away and the figure, indistinct but quick and dangerous, was almost on Carlton now. The boy was looking up into a face, smiling.

And Caitlin thought, 'If this wasn't happening to me, I would be there by now, protecting him, doing my job, saving Liam.'

She leaped over a fallen tree, almost fell, tried to aim the arrow, but her hands looked as if they were made of water and felt as if they were made of light. And she fell, rose up, and looked at the world as if though the bottom of a bottle. She couldn't see the figure, but she could see Carlton, see him smiling, his expression changing.

And she thought, 'No, he's the important one. Everything depends on him. He can't—'

And she saw the flash of the blade, and the blood, and Carlton falling, reaching out to her.

And she thought, 'I could have saved him. I should have saved him. Just like Liam ...'

The figure jumped over the boy's twitching body and was away, and she couldn't tell if it was man or woman, young or old, but she knew the truth in her gut, and she couldn't understand why.

'I could have saved him.'

Her last chance for salvation was gone.

And then there was only the world rushing away, and her screams, and the terrible, terrible night falling in all around.

chapter eleven  
Birmingham

'Does such a thing as "the fatal flaw", that showy dark crack running down the middle of a life, exist outside literature? I used to think it didn't. Now I think it does.'

Donna Tartt

Eight lanes of dirty Tarmac stretched out before her, now camouflaged by tufts of yellow grass bursting through cracks, and nettles and thistles and wind-blown rubbish. Caitlin stood against the central reservation, watching the road sweep down between high walls, other roads crossing overhead so that it felt as if she was looking into a tunnel. And beyond were the towers and office blocks against a slate-grey sky slowly turning towards night.

Not so long ago, the Aston Expressway would have thundered with traffic making its way to and from the M6, and the air would have been filled with the cacophony of the city, engines, voices, music, one never-ending drone. Now there was nothing but bird-song and the wind against the concrete. A fox roamed across the lanes, searching for prey. Rabbits quickly ran back to their burrows beneath Spaghetti Junction. Birmingham had been reborn into the new age.

Caitlin would have recognised the city, but Caitlin was shivering in the heart of the Ice-Field, thrown free of her shelter and the others, alone, dispirited, barely surviving. Caitlin's body knew very little at all. She chose a direction at random and trudged blankly down the Expressway into the heart of the city.

Darkness clung tightly to the high buildings that lined

New Street, but further ahead on the pedestrian precinct a bonfire blazed. The light drew Caitlin like a moth, the thick, acrid smoke obscuring the sickening stink that hung heavily in the air.

On her journey through Colmore Circus she hadn't seen a soul, but now men flitted from shadowed doorways, scarves tied across their faces. They were young, carried knives openly, communicating with high-pitched calls and guttural growls resembling nothing more than the rats that she had seen swarming along the gutters of the business district in sickening numbers.

She stood staring into the bonfire, the heat bringing a bloom to her face, hypnotised by the flickering flames as they consumed the ripped-out fittings of a clothes shop. A young girl barely more than nine, also with a scarf across her face, hurried up and warmed her hands briefly before flashing a murderous glance at Caitlin and disappearing back into the dark.

'Hey.'

Caitlin didn't hear the voice, though it was directed at her.

'Hey!' More urgent this time. A man in his late-twenties with short black hair and eyes that were just as dark emerged from an alley, glancing up and down the street nervously. A red silk scarf was tied across his mouth. 'You. You shouldn't be here.'

'Thackeray, you twat! Leave her alone. They'll be here in a minute.' The other voice came from further down the alley.

Thackeray paused, unsure, then cursed under his breath and hurried up to Caitlin. He gripped her arm and she looked at him blankly. 'What's wrong with you? Don't you know-—' The blank look in her eyes brought him up sharp. He waved one hand in front of her face, then snapped his fingers twice.

'Thackeray!” ''She's fucked in the head.'

'Well, leave her, then! Christ, at a time like this you're trying to pick up women.'

Thackeray looked deep into Caitlin's face, searching the beauty of her big eyes, taking in the shape of her lips and her cheek bones and her nose, but it was something much deeper and more indefinable that stirred him. He pulled on her arm. 'Come on.'

Caitlin stared back, blinked once, twice, lazily, saw nothing.

From the piazza at the end of New Street near the town hall came the dim sound of motorbikes, roaring like mythic beasts. Thackeray cursed again. 'Come on!' He dragged Caitlin sharply towards the alley and after a few feet she began to walk of her own volition.

Just as they stepped out of sight, ten bikes rolled up to the perimeter of orange light cast by the bonfire. The riders wore leathers sprayed with a white cross dissecting a red circle and they carried an array of weaponry: shotguns, handguns, souped-up air rifles, even a crossbow. They moved slowly, searching all around like predatory animals. Occasionally they'd shine a torch into a doorway, but as they neared the bonfire they came to a halt before what had once been a shop and was now clearly some kind of squat. Dirty curtains were draped over the picture windows to provide some privacy, but they were thin enough to reveal the flickering of candles within.

The lead rider got off his bike and marched up to the door. He had long greasy hair and a thick beard, while his huge belly, the result of too much daytime drinking, was barely contained by the fading 'Altamont Heaven' T-shirt.

He hammered on the door with a meaty fist. 'Plague warden. Open up.' The candles inside were blown out, but no one came to answer. 'If you don't open the door,' he roared, 'we'll just burn the place down. You know we will.'

Rapid scuttling echoed from inside. The door was flung open by a frail-looking man in his late fifties with a bushy moustache and florid wind-licked cheeks. 'What's wrong?' he asked in a shaky local accent.

'We had information one of your family had the black spots,' the plague warden said.

The man blanched. 'No. Not here.'

'Get 'em out, then.'

'What?'

'Get 'em out here!' the warden shouted. The man quaked. The warden checked a small, dirty notebook. 'Five of you. You, the missus, her sister, mum, daughter.'

The man started to stutter, but was silenced as the warden waved a shotgun near his face. Broken- shouldered, the man went back inside and emerged a few seconds later with three others.

'Where's the old lady?' the warden bellowed. 'Are you fucking around with me?'

'No, no!' The man held up his hands to try to fend off the shotgun, which cracked him on the jaw.

'Get her!'

After a moment, the man led out his mother, a lady in her seventies with wild white hair. She bore the black marks of the plague on her skin.

'You idiot,' the warden said. 'You know the rules. First sign - very first fucking sign - you hand 'em over so we can deal with 'em.'

'We were just going to look after her at home,' the man said weakly. 'She's me mam ...'

The warden raised his gun and shot the old lady in the face. Blood and bone sprayed over the man, who was frozen in shock. 'Now look,' the warden said. 'You're contaminated.'

He nodded to his men, and before the family could flee they were all taken out in a volley of shots. One of the riders at the back came forward; he was wearing big biker gloves and a contamination mask.

'There's a drop-off point round the way,' he said, muffled.

'Nah, stick 'em back inside,' the warden replied. 'It'll be a warning.'

The one with the mask dragged the bodies back into the family home, shut the door and then took out two cans of spray paint before proceeding to mark the door with the circle and cross.

'Shit. There goes another load,' Thackeray whispered to himself. He looked at Caitlin. 'You don't know how much you have to thank me.'

He pulled her up the steeply climbing alley where another man around Thackeray's age waited anxiously, shifting from foot to foot. He had a thin acne-scarred face and long hair, and wore an old greatcoat and motorcycle boots.

'You're a stupid fucker, Thackeray,' he hissed. 'If they catch us now because of her—'

'I couldn't just leave her out there, could I?' Thackeray protested. He turned to Caitlin again. 'This is Harvey. Not a six-foot invisible white rabbit, but just as much fucking use.'

The bikers reached the end of the alley. A flashlight shone up and Harvey threw himself into a doorway. Thackeray pressed himself against Caitlin and her against the wall. His nose was only a centimetre from hers. He stared deeply into her eyes, which were seemingly untroubled by the threat below. Whatever he saw there brought a smile to his face.

One bike turned into the alley, paused briefly while the engine gunned, and then began to move slowly up. Thackeray dragged Caitlin into the doorway where Harvey cowered. They exchanged a nervous look and then Thackeray nodded to the door. Harvey wrenched at the handle, but just as it came open the light shifted enough to reveal a white cross on a red circle.

'Fuck. Charnel house,' Harvey whispered.

'No choice.' Thackeray propelled him through, then thrust Caitlin in with him and eased the door shut. 'Don't hang around near the door in case he checks inside,' he hissed.

'I can't see anything!' Harvey whined. 'And shit, it reeks!' He coughed. 'I can't breathe! I'm going to choke to death in here!'

Thackeray gagged and pulled his scarf tighter. 'She's not moaning so you can't either, you big fucking girl. We haven't got a choice. Get a move on.'

'Bastard.'

The sound of Harvey shuffling through the dark filtered back to them, and then Thackeray followed suit, holding Caitlin's hand tightly.

'Look, I'm going to use my flint,' Harvey said. 'They won't see the light through the door.'

He struck it three times and then a light flared. The shadows swooped back to reveal a scene so terrible Thackeray and Harvey recoiled, but there was nowhere to avert their eyes. Bodies bearing the unmistakable signs of the plague were stacked against the walls in various stages of decomposition, men, women, young, old. The floor around their boots was puddled with juices.

But that wasn't the worst thing. Several pairs of eyes followed the light, and then the moans started. Some were barely human, a whine on the edge of death, a hum of madness inflicted by the situation. Others whimpered. And a few called out in frail, pitiful voices: 'Help me. Please help me.'

'Shit!' Thackeray said in horror. 'The bastards have dumped some in here while they're still conscious.'

'There's nothing we can do about it.' Harvey tried to sound hard, but he couldn't keep the desperate humanity out of the end of the sentence. 'Bastards,' he said under his breath, keeping his eyes straight ahead.

'What kind of person are you to do something like that?' Thackeray guided Caitlin ahead of him until they reached an area where there were only corpses.

'I don't know how many times I've see this, but it still makes me sick.' Harvey picked his way through the cadavers to the back of the room where the flickering light revealed a door. 'I hope you're right and we are immune.'

'We'd be dead by now if we weren't.' Thackeray glanced back to the area where the barely living still moaned, wondering if there was anything he could do.

'There must be, what? ... thousands gone by now...'

'Tens of thousands.'

'Smacker says there's whole areas where they haven't cleared them - Erdington, Bearwood ... They're just lying in the streets, what's left of 'em now, in their homes ... He said there's like, plagues of rats and clouds of flies as big as your fist, and the stink—'

'All right, I don't need you to paint me a picture. Let's just get out of here.'

They made their way through the door and into the back of the building where there were even more bodies. A section had been set aside where corpses could be prepared for disposal, but neither Thackeray nor Harvey paid any attention to it.

They eventually made their way out through a window on to a flat roof and then a fire escape. The roar of the bikes had now moved down towards Digbeth.

They moved through the still city, the smell of corruption never far from their noses. Occasionally they'd glimpse frightened people scavenging amongst the cavernous buildings, masked with scarves or hooded to keep the stink out or in a feeble attempt to stop the spread of infection. A medieval air now lay across a city that had been thriving and modern only months earlier.

Thackeray and Harvey had their base in the Mailbox, a once-upmarket shopping mall now reduced by looters to a maze of empty rooms. They lived in the barricaded back offices of a former shoe shop, with dwindling supplies stolen from a supermarket lorry in the early days of the Fall. Their food cache had once been secured in an entire shop - bottled water, trays of cans, sacks of pasta and rice - safe behind a steel security gate that could only be opened by a key Thackeray had taken from a security guard killed in the first rash of riots. Now it filled barely a tenth of that space. They still didn't know what they were going to do when it was all gone.

Once safe inside they relaxed. They had a couple of armchairs, sleeping bags under rickety tents of designer sheets to make it more homely, the food for the day in one corner, a £1500 Arabian rug on the floor, scatter cushions all around and a poster of FHMs cover girls on the wall.

'It might look like a seedy smackhead's squat, but we like to call it home,' Thackeray said, sitting Caitlin down on one of the cushions.

'So what's the deal with the bow and arrows?' Harvey said, nodding towards the weapon that was still strapped across her back.