Children's Crusade Read online

  The Afterblight Chronicles

  Children's Crusade

  Scott Andrews

  www.abaddonbooks.com

  An Abaddon BooksTM Publication

  www.abaddonbooks.com

  [email protected]

  First published in 2010 by Abaddon BooksTM, Rebellion Intellectual Property Limited, Riverside House, Osney Mead, Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK

  Editors: Jenni Hill & Jonathan Oliver

  Cover: Mark Harrison

  Design: Simon Parr & Luke Preece

  Creative Director and CEO: Jason Kingsley

  Chief Technical Officer: Chris Kingsley

  The Afterblight ChroniclesTM created by Simon Spurrier & Andy Boot

  Copyright © 2010 Rebellion. All rights reserved.

  The Aferblight ChroniclesTM, Abaddon Books and Abaddon Books logo are trademarks owned or used exclusively by Rebellion Intellectual Property Limited. The trademarks have been registered or protection sought in all member states of the European Union and other countries around the world. All right reserved.

  ISBN(mobi): 978-1-84997-249-9

  ISBN(epub): 978-1-84997-250-5

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  Prologue

  Caroline opened her good eye and winced. It was hard to divorce the pounding in her head from the shockwaves of the explosion that still reverberated around the small room. The walls were painted white but they glowed orange as the fireball billowed up the street outside.

  Even with her head swathed in bandages, her hearing muffled, and her vision clouded by the lingering anaesthetic - not to mention the fact that one of her eyes was healing underneath a thick gauze dressing - Caroline knew instantly what was occurring.

  Someone was attacking the base.

  The night was warm and the window was open. It rattled in its frame and a wave of hot air pushed the curtains towards the ceiling.

  She was lying flat on her back with her hands on her belly and was wearing what felt like a cotton nightdress. The crisp white sheets felt luxurious on her bare calves. It had been so long since she'd felt clean sheets.

  She remembered her mother ironing the bed linen in front of the telly, watching Eastenders from within a cloud of steam.

  The curtains fell back into place and the orange glow faded and began to flicker as fires took hold. Caroline heard the crack of small arms fire; sporadic at first, then constant and concentrated. Fire and a firefight. She wondered how long it would take for the conflict to reach her room, and what would happen when it did.

  She sniffed the air, expecting cordite and smoke, but instead smelled lilies, strong and pungent. She focused on the chest of drawers that sat against the wall directly in front of her. The sense that she was one step sideways from reality was reinforced by the uneasy feeling that the world was somehow flatter. If she never recovered the use of her other eye then things would always be this way; the depth of the world reduced to one smooth surface, like a painting or a television.

  On top of the wardrobe stood a large green vase which held about ten flowering lilies, their petals white with streaks of purple and yellow. They were exquisite.

  Caroline wondered where Rowles had found them, and smiled at the thought of her best friend.

  Then she frowned. Where was he?

  Engines now, outside. Deep, throaty roars and the rumble of caterpillar tracks coming closer. Tanks, then. She could not imagine who would have the resources to attack this place, the most heavily defended position in the country, base of operations for the entire British Army.

  She licked her lips. Her mouth felt musty and she had a sharp, bitter taste at the back of her throat, like bile or grapefruit. Wondering what the time was, she gently rotated her head until she could see the clock on her bedside table. 10:15. Not so late, but it was already dark outside.

  She stroked her belly through her nightshirt, feeling the flat planes of her abdomen and the hollow empty ache inside, a reminder that she had not eaten for at least 24 hours. Then she thought: it may be more than that. How long had she been unconscious? It could be days.

  She felt no disquiet at the prospect of having lost time in this nice, clean, envelope-smooth bed. What a nice place to lose time, she thought.

  A distant whine grew into a piercing shriek that swept across the outside sky like a banshee. Fighter jet. No, two fighter jets. As they screamed overhead there was a whoosh and a hiss then a series of loud explosions as the planes launched missiles into the most entrenched positions, or eliminated British tanks or buildings.

  Her nice warm bed didn't seem a safe place to be, but Caroline did not panic. She was too weak from surgery to lift herself into a sitting position, let alone leave the bed and search for shelter. The knowledge of her helplessness freed her from fear. There is no point, she told herself, being afraid of something you can't change; you will survive or you won't and there's nothing you can do to influence the outcome either way.

  A tank ground to a halt beneath her window. She heard a whirr of engines as the turret rotated and the gun was manoeuvred into firing position. Then a moment's pause before her bed shook as the shell was fired.

  Now she could smell gunpowder and the tang of hot, oiled metal, but the smell of the lilies was not entirely swamped. She imagined the flowers fighting back against machinery, and winning.

  Since the explosion had woken her, Caroline had heard no noises from inside the building where she lay, tucked up safe on the second floor in her convalescent room. Now she heard the unmistakeable clatter of boots on the stairs at the end of the corridor. It was one person, running. Looking for somewhere to hide, perhaps? Or coming for her?

  The footsteps got closer, then she heard many more pairs of boots coming up the stairs in pursuit.

  Caroline scrunched her toes against the soft, smooth bed sheets in a tactile farewell just as the door to her room burst open.

  "Caroline?" It was Rowles. He was breathing hard, on the verge of panic, which was unlike him.

  "What's happening?" she said. Or at least that's what she tried to say. Her tongue felt like a lump of meat in her mouth and her lips seemed swollen and heavy. What she actually said was "Wa han," but sweet, faithful Rowles understood her.

  "American army," he said, by way of explanation as he closed the door behind him, grabbed a metal-framed canvas chair and shoved it under the door handle. Then he ran to her bedside, leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

  "They may not check too carefully," he whispered.

  The door handle rattled immediately. She'd thought he was being optimistic.

  The boy she trusted more than anyone else alive crouched down beside her bed with a machine gun aimed at the door. It was cocked and ready to fire. He was defending her with his life, and she felt an overwhelming flood of affection for him. It took a huge effort but she managed to lift her right arm out from under the covers and reach across to stroke his light brown hair. He glanced up at her and she smiled at him. His wide eyes and small freckled nose gave him the face of an angel, but stare deeper into those eyes and there was only pitiless darkness. Hard to believe he was only eleven.

  He smiled back and just for a moment his eyes lightened. There was still some feeling in there, after all. She hoped one day she'd hear him laugh. But she didn't think it likely.

  She remembered her father laughing at an old repeat of Morecambe and Wise, his eyes creased to s
lits as he literally held his sides and rocked back and forth on the sofa like a laughing policeman at a fairground.

  If Rowles was going to die here, she was glad she could die with him. She'd heard Matron refer to them once as Bonnie and Clyde, so it was fitting.

  The door ceased rattling and the footsteps clattered away.

  A moment later she heard boots descending the stairs.

  Rowles stood up and walked around the bed, then pulled the curtain aside a fraction and looked out at the battlefield.

  "I don't know why they're attacking, but I think they're winning." There was a huge explosion nearby and he pulled back from the window, shielding his eyes. "It's not safe to stay here. We have to go."

  Caroline wanted nothing more than to run away with him, but she would need to be carried, manhandled, pushed in a wheelchair. She was twelve years old and would have described herself as solid, even stocky. Rowles was eleven and thin as a rake. There was no chance. She wanted to tell him to go without her, to save himself and leave her be. But her treacherous mouth wouldn't form the words and, she realised with some surprise, she was too selfish for that. She wanted to be with him, no matter what.

  "Wel air," she grunted.

  "Good idea. I'll go look for one. Back in a mo."

  He pulled the chair away from the handle and cracked open the door. Once he'd assured himself that the corridor was clear he slipped out, pulling the door closed behind him.

  Caroline was alone again.

  The noises of fighting were moving away now. The building in which she lay was quite near the main gates and she presumed it was their destruction which had signalled the start of the assault and woken her up. Now the fight was moving into the centre of the base. But below her window there was a steady rumble of incoming trucks, tanks and other vehicles as the Americans flooded in to join the fight.

  She wondered where Matron was. It was unlike her to leave them alone; she should have been with Rowles, giving orders, taking decisions, making the children feel safe, protected, even loved, with a sly glance or a flash of a smile in the direst of circumstances. Rowles' presence made Caroline feel safe, Matron's made her feel she belonged.

  She remembered her older sister's arm around her shoulder at their Grandad's funeral, reaching up and taking her hand, feeling her sister squeeze it for comfort.

  Footsteps and voices in the corridor. Rowles was no longer alone.

  The door opened and a tall man with thick black hair and heavy features entered. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, but had an SLR machine gun slung across his chest. She recognised him - he was the doctor who had been there when she regained consciousness after the operation. Jones? Johns? She couldn't recall his name.

  Rowles came in behind the man, pushing a wheelchair, then closed the door.

  The doctor leaned over her.

  "Can you hear me Caroline?" he asked.

  "Yuh."

  "Can you move at all?"

  She lifted her arm feebly and wiggled her fingers until the effort became too much and the limb flopped back down, useless.

  The doctor smiled. It was obviously meant to be reassuring but there was something calculating in his eyes, something which made her withhold trust.

  "We're going to lift you into the wheelchair," he said. "It may hurt, but I haven't got any anaesthetic on me, I'm afraid. Then we're going to take the lift down to the rear doors where I've got a jeep waiting. If we move quickly, I think we'll be able to get ourselves away from here before they secure the perimeter." He turned and nodded to Rowles, who wheeled the chair alongside the bed then took Caroline's hand.

  She was sad to leave her clean, white cocoon, but the pain in her head as the doctor and Rowles pulled her into a sitting position made it hard to concentrate on anything but staying conscious.

  "One, two, three," said the doctor, grunting on "three" as they lifted Caroline out of the bed and into the chair. Once she was sitting again, the pain in her head receded.

  Outside, there was a whoosh and then a tremendous explosion directly beneath the window. Bazooka, perhaps? The window finally came off its latch and smashed against the interior wall, showering the now empty bed with shards of glass.

  The doctor went to take the handles of the wheelchair, but Rowles stepped behind her. The doctor, looking over her head at Rowles' determined, territorial look - which Caroline could picture clearly, even though she was facing the other way - nodded. He turned and opened the door, then waved for Rowles to follow him.

  They moved quickly out of the room and into the corridor, turning left and heading for the grey lift doors twenty metres away. Caroline observed the flat details of the corridor as she rolled past door after door, all closed. They reached the lift and the doctor reached out to press the call button, but before he could make contact the lift pinged, the doors slid open, and an American soldier stood before them, gun levelled straight at the doctor's chest.

  The soldier and the doctor stood there for a second, frozen in surprise. But the soldier's reflexes were tuned for combat, and when the moment passed he was quickest. Deciding that he didn't need to waste ammunition, he brought his gun around and smashed the butt across the doctor's face, sending him crashing to the floor, stunned.

  Caroline was intrigued by the soldier's uniform. It was a camouflage pattern of light and dark browns. Desert clothes, hardly suitable for warfare on the rolling green plains of England.

  The soldier stepped over the prone doctor and relieved him of his weapon. Caroline could tell by the tiny vibrations in her chair that Rowles was still gripping the handles tightly, resisting the temptation to go for the gun that was slung across his back, waiting for the right moment. Perhaps the soldier hadn't even noticed the strap that ran diagonally across the boy's chest. Or perhaps he'd made the same mistake that so many had made before him, ignoring the tiny boy, failing to consider him a threat. If that were the case, Caroline knew he'd soon regret that judgment.

  The soldier stood upright and looked down at the two children. He didn't say a word, just held out his arm, lowered his index finger, and rotated it to indicate that they should turn around and go back the way they'd come.

  Caroline felt her chair move to the left, beginning to describe a circle, then the chair stopped at about 45 degrees and Rowles stepped back from the handles, grabbed the strap, brought his gun to bear, and fired at the soldier's chest.

  There was a dry click as the gun jammed and then another of those moments of stunned surprise as boy and man stood facing each other.

  Caroline saw the doctor begin to stir on the floor behind the soldier.

  The look of astonishment on the soldier's face faded into amusement and he laughed at Rowles.

  Oh dear, thought Caroline, allowing herself a tiny smile. That's not wise.

  Rowles launched himself at the soldier with a cry, using his gun as a club, beating the man's chest and arms. The soldier lifted one big hand and swatted the gun aside, then lifted the boy off the ground in a bear hug, pinning his arms to his sides.

  The doctor was up on all fours now, shaking his head to clear it. There was a loud scream of engines above as the jets made another pass, and a clatter of boots on the stairs at the far end of the corridor, as the soldiers returned.

  "Little boy," said the soldier in a thick Brooklyn accent. "You're feisty, aintcha?"

  Grasped tight, his feet off the ground, his arms useless, with no weapon to defend himself, Rowles looked puny and weak compared to the man who held him fast.

  But Rowles was not beaten yet. With a feral snarl he bared his teeth, leaned forward, and bit hard into the man's throat.

  The soldier staggered back and released his hold on the boy. But Rowles did not fall to the floor. Instead, he wrapped his arms around the soldier's neck and his legs around his waist, and continued biting, gnawing, crunching and savaging the man's throat. He growled as he did so, like a wolf ripping out the throat of a helpless lamb.

  Great fists raised and smashed
the boy's head again and again and Caroline winced at the soldier's scream of pure agony and terror, but Rowles was limpet tight to the man, impossible to dislodge. The soldier took another step back and lost his footing, tumbling down and smashing his helmet against the floor. Rowles leaped up, pulled the knife from the soldier's leather sheath, grasped it tightly in both hands and brought it down in a mighty arc, straight into his heart. The soldier's legs kicked furiously, but his death throes gave the boy no pause.

  Rowles pulled out the knife, cut the gun's strap with one swift slice, freeing the M-16 from the soldier's chest, then turned to the doctor, who had by now regained his feet.

  "Quickly," he said. The doctor reached forward, grabbed the handles of Caroline's chair and spun her around, pulling her behind him as he backed into the lift.

  The clatter of boots was deafening now. Helmets appeared, rising up the stairs at the far end of the corridor. Rowles, his back to Caroline, fired a short burst at the stairwell, which caused the helmets to vanish from view.

  Then the boy turned to look at her. His eyes were pitch black, blood dripped from his face and chin, and when he spoke she could see strands of flesh stuck between his teeth.

  She realised in that moment that she loved him more than she had ever loved anyone in her life.

  "Run," he said softly, his voice full of regret.

  The doctor pressed the button and the doors of the lift began to slide closed. Caroline lifted her arm, reaching out her helpless fingers towards Rowles. Their eyes met and she knew, with absolute certainty, that she would never see him alive again.

  Through the tiny crack as the doors closed she caught a glimpse of him turning away from her and running down the corridor. Then there was gunfire and screaming, and the soft buzz of the lift's engine as the metal cage lowered her gently to the ground.

  As her eyes filled with tears, she caught a faint hint of lilies on the air.

  Part One