Katherine Lucy Booker – Kit to her family, Kate to everyone else – died five years ago in a warehouse on Moss Side.
Then she gave herself a bit of a makeover. She dyed her hair, got that nose ring she'd always secretly craved, dumped the Jigsaw wardrobe and went a bit more casual. She even started listening to different kinds of music – out with Kylie, in with Dresden Dolls – and stopped watching thrillers and horror films altogether, preferring inoffensive romcoms and bodice rippers. She walked differently too, but only because she stopped wearing heels.
Her sleep patterns altered. She used to sleep like a log for eight hours straight, preferring early nights and cosy jim jams. Now she was more likely to crawl to bed in the early hours in her knickers and t-shirt, cuddling a bottle of chianti, before waking, sweating and alarmed after four hours fitful rest.
She moved to a different part of the country, broke contact with all her friends and family, abandoned her career as a doctor and became a far less illustrious type of medic, ministering to spotty boys and institutionalised teachers with bad breath and nicotine fingers.
Kate Booker became Jane Crowther.
Then, one day, lying on the grass surrounded by corpses, Jane was visited by the ghost of Kate.
And I couldn't think what to say to her.
"I'm sorry, do I… do I know you?" I stuttered as the ground which had been so solid beneath me only a moment ago, began to spin.
"Lieutenant Sanders, Miss," he said cheerily. "I was part of the team that oversaw your training."
I wracked my brains. Sanders? I didn't remember any Sanders.
He reached down a great paw. I took it and he pulled me up without the slightest effort. The man radiated strength.
Once I was upright the spinning was even more pronounced and I stumbled a bit. He caught me in his arms like I was some kind of swooning schoolgirl. I blushed red with embarrassment. This, of course, made it even worse. I shook him off firmly and regained my composure with a brisk cough.
"It's been a long time since a man's made me dizzy, Lieutenant," I joked.
He laughed awkwardly as I took a closer look at him. He had the tanned skin of a man who spends time outdoors; thick black eyebrows topped deep-set brown eyes that sat either side of a classic Roman nose. His large chin jutted out slightly, making him look like a weird mixture of toff and bruiser. It was a striking face rather than a handsome one.
"Wait a minute," I said, as realisation dawned. "I do remember you! You were one of the soldiers Cooper took me to train with out in Hereford. You were the judo guy, weren't you? Spent a whole day throwing me round a gym like I was a, oh, I don't know what."
"That's me, Miss. I was part of the assault team at the warehouse as well. Nasty business. I'm sorry about… you know."
"Yeah, right. Wow. It's, um, it's been a really long time since anyone's called me Miss Booker. You threw me there for a minute."
He nodded. "What exactly is the reason for the name change, Miss?" The shift from friendly reminiscence to polite officialdom almost went past me. Almost.
"Witness protection," I replied. "They made me into a boarding school matron, would you believe. I was only supposed to be here 'til they caught up with The Spider, but I never heard anything. And then, The Cull, obviously."
"Kept the name though."
"Kate's a distant memory now. It's Jane who looks after the kids. I'm not sure Kate would have been up to this kind of thing."
He was looking at me oddly, trying to suss out whether I was delusional or just weird.
"I know," I said. "It just helps me if I keep them separate in my mind, lets me focus on the here and now. And it would only confuse the kids if I introduced them to Kate after everything we've been through. They trust Jane, they might not be so sure about Kate."
He nodded again. "I've been undercover, Miss, I get it. So, Lance Corporal Barker says you've evacuated the school and he doesn't know where they've gone. That right?"
"Yes."
He looked at the row of bodies and his cheeriness faded. Our surprising reunion lost its novelty and the reality of his job re-asserted itself.
"It was just an awful misunderstanding," I said.
He regarded me coolly. "I'm sure it was, Miss. But it's not me you've got to convince, it's Major General Kennet."
More soldiers had arrived now, and Sanders set them to carrying the bodies into one of the three trucks they'd brought, expecting to have to transport all the children and staff to safety.
"What's he like?" I asked as we walked away.
"I've served under worse," he replied.
"But you've served under better?"
"Oh yes."
We reached the first truck and he took a pair of handcuffs from his pocket.
"I don't want to cuff you, Miss," he said. "So if you promise that…"
"I promise."
"And I'll keep an eye on her, Lieutenant," added Barker, who was already sitting on one of the hard wooden benches that lined the metal-bottomed, canvas-topped transit vehicle.
"All right then," said Sanders briskly. "We've got a long journey ahead of us. A lot of the road has been cleared but not all, and there are some unswept areas on the way. We took some fire on our trip here, but nothing too serious. Of course they could be waiting for us on the return journey, but we'll vary our route, just in case. If we do run into trouble, then Barker, your job is to look after Kate here. I spent a lot of effort keeping her alive once upon a time. I'd hate all that work to be wasted."
"Sir," replied Barker, resting his rifle on his lap.
"What do you mean, unswept areas?" I asked.
"I'll let the C.O. answer that, Miss," replied Sanders. "Now if you'll excuse me."
Sanders left and I could see him poring over a map with the three drivers, plotting a route.
"Where are you lot based, Barker?"
"Operation Motherland HQ is at Salisbury Plain," he replied.
"Operation Motherland? What's that?" I asked.
"Top secret," he replied, tapping the side of his nose. "Look, I was expecting you to get some pretty rough treatment, but the Lieutenant was all pally. You got really lucky, knowing him, otherwise you'd be on the floor, in shackles with a sack over your head."
"I know. I can't quite believe it myself."
"My point is that it isn't always going to be like this. The C.O. is not a very flexible boss, if you know what I mean. Me and the Lieutenant speaking up for you might not make a lot of difference."
And with that happy thought, the engine sputtered into life and we rumbled away.
I looked out the back of the truck at my beloved school. I'd worked so hard to build something special, to make it a safe, happy place. It was my home and the people who lived there were my family.
I wondered if I'd ever see it again. Probably not. I shed a tear as it receded into the distance. Not for myself, but for the loss of a dream. Nowadays it seemed like every good, clean thing had to end up covered in blood.
As we slowed to turn the corner at the end of the drive I saw two small figures burst from the bushes by the side of the road and leap quickly over the duckboard of the third and final truck.
I didn't know whether to curse or smile. It seemed like I still had two psychotic guardian angels looking after me.
In the eighteen months since The Cull had burned itself out I'd not moved outside a twenty mile radius. With one notable exception, who was now God knew where, people just stayed put. The days of travelling long distances for work or pleasure were long gone. This was a parochial world of small, paranoid communities. Apart from some mad American religious broadcasts, which I wouldn't allow anyone at school to watch, there was no TV, no newspapers to keep people up to date with events taking place outside their immediate circle of family, friends and neighbours. Horizons had narrowed, and life had focused on the local and familiar. So it felt weird to pass a battered metal sign at the side of the road which read 'You are now leaving Kent'.
It might as well have said 'Here Be Monsters!'
We moved down quiet country roads, deserted for the most part, until we came to the A272. Barker told me this had been cleared about a month ago, which is why the soldiers had only just shown up at my school. Their sphere of influence was expanding along reclaimed A-roads and motorways. But this road still ran through large unswept areas, which I took to mean places not yet brought under military control. This, it turned out, was not entirely correct.
The A272 had once been a nice wide road, but now there was only a narrow path through the thousands of abandoned vehicles. Londoners had fled the capital as The Cull took hold, hoping to hide away in the country until things calmed down. Soon all the main roads and motorways were gridlocked. Of course many of those fleeing were already infected, and they began dying in their cars. It soon became clear that the traffic was never going to move again, so those still alive just got out of their cars, vans and trucks, and walked away.
The path through the debris, which Barker told me had been cleared by huge diggers salvaged from a quarry, was wide enough that we could get up to a reasonable speed, but with so much raw material available for use as obstacles, the risk of ambush was great.
We travelled this graveyard highway for about an hour until we pulled off the road and into a small market town, empty and forgotten, slowly decaying. The convoy stopped in the middle of the narrow high street, littered with abandoned cars, and Sanders gathered everyone together at the bonnet of the lead truck.
"Change of orders," he told us. "Since we've got more room than expected, the Colonel wants us to recce a site near here and sweep it if possible."
Barker sighed softly and shook his head, but when I tried to ask him why he just rolled his eyes.
"The site is half a mile south-east of here," continued Sanders. "I'm going to take Patel here and we'll scout around. The rest of you stay here and stay alert. If we're not back by oh two-hundred hours, I want you to radio for support and then come looking for us."
"Sir, isn't this Midhurst?" asked one of the squaddies.
Sanders nodded.
"But we swept here. Remember, the gang war we sorted out? Bossy bloke with red hair running things."
"I remember," said Sanders. "But this new site was top secret, apparently. All hush hush. HQ have only just identified it. We went right past it last time."
The squaddie shook his head. "That's not my point, Sir. This town's inhabited and we made it safe. So where is everyone?"
Sanders shrugged. "I dunno," he said. "Moved on somewhere better? It's not our problem. Just stay close to the trucks and keep an eye out for trouble, all right?"
Sanders and his colleague checked their weapons and left, leaving me with Barker and five soldiers whose idea of staying alert turned out to be lighting up and playing cards. Barker was not invited to join them.
"They don't trust me," he explained.
"Well I need to pee, and I trust you not to peek, so that's something, eh?" I said, and I linked my arm through his and led him towards Woolies in search of privacy.
"Ooh," said Barker as we approached the ruined store. "I wonder if they still have any Stephen Kings."
We heard a jeer from behind us.
"Great," moaned Barker. "Now they think we're shagging."
Woolies had been comprehensively looted, and there was crap all over the place. Literally – someone had smeared their own shit on the windows.
"Euw, that's gross," I said, looking around for a quiet spot. "I'm going over there." I pointed to a brick flower bed that housed a large ugly bush. Barker nodded and walked into the shop while I scurried behind the bush.
Sometimes, when I'm feeling especially morbid, I wonder what my last words might be. I picture myself lying in some grand four-poster bed, surrounded by fat, happy grandchildren as I fade away, elegant to the last, imparting pearls of wisdom gleaned from a long, fulfilling life. I bet that Barker, if he ever gave it a second's thought, never considered "great, now they think we're shagging," as particularly likely or desirable last words.
But we don't get to choose, do we?
As I started to unbuckle my belt I heard a tiny metallic 'sprang' and a soft grunt. I assumed Barker had trodden on a toy car or something, and I sighed gratefully as I emptied my bladder.
When I emerged a minute later I went towards the shattered doors of Woolies and peered into the gloom.
"Find anything good?" I shouted.
No reply.
My eyes adjusted to the darkness of the shop interior and it became clear why that was.
The metallic twang had been poor old Barker stepping on a tripwire. The grunt, the only sound he'd managed to make as the six foot long spring-loaded metal spike had leapt free of its housing and swung down from the ceiling, skewering him and lifting him off his feet. And there he remained, dangling in mid air, a huge sharpened girder sticking out of his back, blood everywhere.
Dammit, I liked him.
I staggered back with an involuntary scream and the next thing I knew someone slammed into my back, shoving me hard up against the store window, pushing my right arm up behind my back, and grazing my stitched cheek on a streak of hard, dried shit.
"You fucking do, cunt?" yelled a squaddie in my ear.
It would have been impossible to reply with my face pressed against the glass, so I didn't even try to respond.
"Easy, Col," said one of his mates. "It's a booby trap."
Col wasn't inclined to let me go, though, and he kept me pinned there for another few seconds, pressed up against me. He let me go by pushing himself away from me with his groin, so I could feel his erection, snorting his disgust as he did so.
The wise thing to do would have been to let it go. But I turned like a flash and slapped him as hard as I could.
He snarled and raised his hand to hit me, but his mate intervened, grabbing his wrist and staring him down.
"Fuck's sake, Col, get a grip," he said. My assailant gave a sick laugh, pulled his arm free and walked away backwards, giving me the evil eye.
"Thanks," I said as I spat on my sleeve and wiped the shit and blood off my face.
"Shut the fuck up," replied my rescuer, "and get back in the fucking truck before I shoot you myself. And don't even think of doing a runner."
Leaving the squaddies to their grim task I stepped away and walked back to the trucks. Before stepping out into the road I instinctively looked left and right for oncoming traffic, then paused, realised what I'd done, and laughed at my own stupidity. Then something registered, and I looked right again.
At the far end of the street stood a figure. I think it was a man but it was hard to be sure because they were dressed in a bright yellow hazmat suit, their glass visor glinting in the sun, hiding their face. The figure just stood there looking at us, seemingly content just to watch.
I looked back at the soldiers. Two of them had taken up positions in cover and were scanning the opposite buildings. I was pleased to notice that Col had chosen the bush to hide behind, which meant he was kneeling in my piss. Ha. The other three were inside the shop attempting to pull Barker down. None of them had seen our visitor. I looked back and now there were two of them, both in the bright yellow suits. And I could see that they both carried shotguns.
"Um, guys," I said quietly, but they didn't hear me. Snatches of their conversation floated across to where I stood.
"No, not that arm, dipshit…"
"Jesus, now I'm covered in guts…"
"Oi, careful I just washed this bloody uniform…"
I spoke more clearly. "Guys, we have company."
The nearest man on watch heard me and called the others. They dropped what they were doing and I heard Barker hit the floor with a thud. Weapons raised, they scattered to positions of cover and vantage, all the while keeping their eyes on our two -no, three now – visitors.
I turned to see where the soldiers were taking up positions, about to move myself, and over their shoulders I saw four more of the yellow-clad figures standing motionless outside a ruined hardware store at the other end of the road. Before I could shout a warning, one of them raised a megaphone to his visor and a tinny voice echoed up the wrecked street.
"You shall be cleansed," he said flatly, his voice altered by a distorter that made him sound like a Dalek. "All shall be cleansed."
"Ah shit, cleaners," yelled the squaddie nearest to me. "Masks!"
"They're in the bloody trucks," yelled someone else.
Then there was a dull pop, I heard something metal hit the tarmac, and then a soft hiss.
There was a second's silence before I heard Col shout "gas!" and then I ran like hell for the truck where Rowles and Caroline were hiding. A cloud of thick yellow smoke billowed out from the area where the soldiers had taken up positions. I heard screams and then indiscriminate gunfire. A burst of rounds whipped past my head, punching holes in the nearest truck's canvas covering.
The hazmat guys just remained where they were.
Staying just ahead of the drifting cloud, I reached the truck and looked inside. Empty. They must have slipped away. No time to look any closer, the thick yellow cloud was nearly at me. I ran for the opposite side of the road and straight through the shattered doors of a branch of Lloyd's Bank. I was so panicked that it was only once I was inside that it occurred to me to look for tripwires. And there one was, about a centimetre from my right toe. Unfortunately I was still moving and my left foot was just about to hit the thin metal strip. I dived forward, clipping the wire as I did so. I hit the damp, mouldy carpet hard and heard the clang of something big and metal above my head. I rolled on to my back and saw enormous metal jaws, cut from what looked like car bonnets. It was a sort of huge, upside down mantrap and it would have taken my head clean off.
"They really don't like giving overdrafts," said a boy's voice to my right.
"You armed?" I asked.
"Natch," said a girl's voice to my left.
"Spare?"
"Catch."
I caught the browning semi-automatic handgun, chambered a round and sprang to my feet.
"There a back way out of here?"
"Nope," replied Rowles. "Already checked. How d'you know we were in here?"
"I didn't."
"Cool, woman's intuition," said Caroline.
"Yeah, right," Rowles laughed.
"Enough," I snapped. "Quiet."
We listened but could hear no noise at all from the street outside. The shooting was over. Through the door I could see the cloud of gas had nearly dispersed and was being blown towards the other side of the road. As the mist cleared a figure emerged. It was Col, with his hands over his face, staggering like a blind man. He walked into a car and his hands came away from his face. taking most of the flesh with them. His cheekbones shone white in the sunlight as he slumped forward across the car and lay still.
"I think I'm gonna puke," said Caroline.
"Are they all dead?" asked Rowles.
"Looks like it," I replied. "But Sanders and another one, Patel, they're off doing a recce. They should have heard the gunfire. They'll be back any minute."
"And do they have gasmasks?" asked Caroline. "'Cause if not…"
"Sanders is SAS. He'll sort it. We just have to sit tight and wait for…"
A yellow suited figure stepped into the doorway holding a gas grenade in his left hand.
"You shall be cleansed," he said.
And he pulled the pin.