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Authors: Charlie Higson
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sleeping through the day
in a primary school. Old red-brick buildings, long since abandoned. They’d found
nothing to eat the night before and as the sun had come up over the streets,
they’d crawled inside to rest. Shadowman had found a good vantage point in a block
of flats over the road and had himself settled down to sleep like the strangers. He was
getting used to their rhythms and routines, tuning in to their behaviour. He slept
lightly, though, and could wake up and be on his feet in the time it took to flick a
switch. When they stirred, he stirred.
He wondered sometimes if he was becoming
infected by them somehow, turning into an insect, part of the swarm, the flock, the
herd, the stain. Other times, when he was feeling less dramatic, he reckoned it was just
theirsmell that woke him. They gave off a powerful stench, so powerful
it masked his own smell and stopped them from finding him. He’d killed some of
them the other day, a hunting party led by a mutilated stranger he’d dubbed the
One-Armed Bandit. Afterwards he’d drenched his cloak in their blood, just to be
sure. He smelt like one of them now.
He’d woken at dusk as the first of The
Fear emerged from the school buildings and spilt out into the playground. He’d got
on to his knees and spied on them through a window. Watched as they congregated by a
climbing frame. Just like the old days when parents hung about chatting to each other
after dropping their kids off. They milled about, waiting for St George to come out with
his little gang of officers, as Shadowman thought of them.
And then they’d come. Spike, who still
had a crossbow bolt stuck in his ribs where Shadowman had shot him. Bluetooth, in the
tattered remains of a City suit, with a Bluetooth earpiece embedded in his ear. Man U,
in his red Manchester United shirt. And then there he was, St George himself, wearing
baggy shorts, a pair of glasses that had long since lost their lenses and the grubby
vest with the cross of St George on it that had given him his name. He had a huge head,
grotesquely swollen by the disease so that it was now almost too heavy for his neck to
support. It lolled on his shoulders and if his body hadn’t been so stocky, his
legs so sturdy, Shadowman might have wondered why he didn’t just fall over, he was
so top-heavy.
St George shuffled out into the middle of
the playground, scratching his great bald head, looking around at his fellow strangers,
staring them down, his officers flanking him.
Every day he appeared more human, less
confused.Perhaps the disease was wearing off? Perhaps his body was
fighting it, but if so, why did he continue with his murderous rampage? If anything he
was more savage each night.
Then he stopped. Stood there, The Fear in a
big circle all around him, staring silently at him, as if listening. Was he
communicating with them somehow? Were they tuned in to his thoughts? There could be no
other explanation for what happened next. The Fear moved, as one, and grabbed the twelve
weaklings. Tossed them to St George.
Shadowman had seen it all through his
binoculars. Had watched as St George shuddered, turned his face, first to the darkening
sky, then down to the pathetic pile of humanity crawling on the ground at his feet.
Then he’d smiled and The Fear flowed
inwards and swarmed over the weak ones. Mercilessly and methodically they’d
butchered their own kind and were now sharing the meat around. There were too many
memories for Shadowman. Taking him back to a time before all this. He remembered summer
fairs at primary school, when all the parents had come to help out, cooking curries and
barbecues, sausages and cakes and vegetarian fritters. A band in the corner made up of
dads who still dreamt of being rock stars, playing old blues and rock and roll songs.
Teachers in the stocks having wet sponges thrown at them. Goal-kicking contests. Stalls
in a primary school. Old red-brick buildings, long since abandoned. They’d found
nothing to eat the night before and as the sun had come up over the streets,
they’d crawled inside to rest. Shadowman had found a good vantage point in a block
of flats over the road and had himself settled down to sleep like the strangers. He was
getting used to their rhythms and routines, tuning in to their behaviour. He slept
lightly, though, and could wake up and be on his feet in the time it took to flick a
switch. When they stirred, he stirred.
He wondered sometimes if he was becoming
infected by them somehow, turning into an insect, part of the swarm, the flock, the
herd, the stain. Other times, when he was feeling less dramatic, he reckoned it was just
theirsmell that woke him. They gave off a powerful stench, so powerful
it masked his own smell and stopped them from finding him. He’d killed some of
them the other day, a hunting party led by a mutilated stranger he’d dubbed the
One-Armed Bandit. Afterwards he’d drenched his cloak in their blood, just to be
sure. He smelt like one of them now.
He’d woken at dusk as the first of The
Fear emerged from the school buildings and spilt out into the playground. He’d got
on to his knees and spied on them through a window. Watched as they congregated by a
climbing frame. Just like the old days when parents hung about chatting to each other
after dropping their kids off. They milled about, waiting for St George to come out with
his little gang of officers, as Shadowman thought of them.
And then they’d come. Spike, who still
had a crossbow bolt stuck in his ribs where Shadowman had shot him. Bluetooth, in the
tattered remains of a City suit, with a Bluetooth earpiece embedded in his ear. Man U,
in his red Manchester United shirt. And then there he was, St George himself, wearing
baggy shorts, a pair of glasses that had long since lost their lenses and the grubby
vest with the cross of St George on it that had given him his name. He had a huge head,
grotesquely swollen by the disease so that it was now almost too heavy for his neck to
support. It lolled on his shoulders and if his body hadn’t been so stocky, his
legs so sturdy, Shadowman might have wondered why he didn’t just fall over, he was
so top-heavy.
St George shuffled out into the middle of
the playground, scratching his great bald head, looking around at his fellow strangers,
staring them down, his officers flanking him.
Every day he appeared more human, less
confused.Perhaps the disease was wearing off? Perhaps his body was
fighting it, but if so, why did he continue with his murderous rampage? If anything he
was more savage each night.
Then he stopped. Stood there, The Fear in a
big circle all around him, staring silently at him, as if listening. Was he
communicating with them somehow? Were they tuned in to his thoughts? There could be no
other explanation for what happened next. The Fear moved, as one, and grabbed the twelve
weaklings. Tossed them to St George.
Shadowman had seen it all through his
binoculars. Had watched as St George shuddered, turned his face, first to the darkening
sky, then down to the pathetic pile of humanity crawling on the ground at his feet.
Then he’d smiled and The Fear flowed
inwards and swarmed over the weak ones. Mercilessly and methodically they’d
butchered their own kind and were now sharing the meat around. There were too many
memories for Shadowman. Taking him back to a time before all this. He remembered summer
fairs at primary school, when all the parents had come to help out, cooking curries and
barbecues, sausages and cakes and vegetarian fritters. A band in the corner made up of
dads who still dreamt of being rock stars, playing old blues and rock and roll songs.
Teachers in the stocks having wet sponges thrown at them. Goal-kicking contests. Stalls
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