Free The Dead by Charlie Higson Page B

Matt and Archie were so absorbed in their conversation about the Lamb that they seemed to have completely forgotten that they might be in any danger at all. That wasn’t clever of them. The sudden attack that came from nowhere was the most devastating. You had to be prepared.
    Jack wanted to scream at the boys to shut up and pay attention, but feared that they would only try to involve him in their discussion. There was no way of getting through to Matt – he was utterly obsessed. He really seemed to think that the Lamb, whatever the hell that was, would protect him from anything.
    He was reciting something by heart as he walked, without needing to look at the pages, which he’d put away to protect from the rain.
    ‘ I was dead, and behold I am alive forever and ever! He who overcomes will not be hurt at all by the second death .’
    ‘Will it be clear when we meet the Lamb what it is?’ asked one of the younger boys. ‘What will it look like?’
    ‘Not it,’ said Matt. ‘ He . The Lamb is a boy like us. His hair is golden. His face is white and shining, and he walks with a shadow.’
    ‘You keep saying that, Matt, but what does it mean?’ Archie Bishop asked. ‘Surely we all walk with a shadow.’
    ‘The Lamb’s shadow is a living shadow, like a doppelganger.’
    ‘A what?’
    ‘It’s a fancy word for a double. It’s like his dark half, his dark brother. He’s a demon who speaks in tongues.’
    ‘My older brother, Robert, went on an Alpha Course,’ said Archie. ‘They speak in tongues. He did a bit for me. It sounded mad.’
    ‘Should we speak in tongues, do you think?’ Matt asked, getting excited.
    ‘We could try.’
    ‘How do you do it?’
    ‘Well, you just sort of let the spirit guide you and you sort of go, blah laa laa, baba babala laaa la la al ba ba ba blaaa …’
    Matt joined in, going, ‘Blaa maa kaaa baa laaa …’ but soon broke down into helpless giggles.
    ‘We need to practise that a bit,’ he said.
    The acolytes started up and soon all of them were chirruping away, laughing and spouting gibberish.
    Great , thought Jack. I’m on marathon walk to London, likely to be ambushed by diseased nutters at any moment and I’m stuck with a load of idiots who sound like they’ve escaped from the set of In the Night Garden.

15

    When he was eight, Ed had gone on a family holiday to the west coast of France. There had been signs everywhere reading CÔTE SAUVAGE , wild coast, and the waves had been huge. One day his dad had taken him out to brave them. It had been amazing, rising up on the swell, diving through the breakers, body surfing, but then one had taken him by surprise and knocked him off his feet.
    It had been terrifying, being rolled over and over, not knowing which way was up or down, a hideous churning confusion of water and sand. Whenever his feet had found the bottom, they’d been whipped away and he’d been spun again, like being inside a giant washing machine.
    At last his dad had grabbed him and pulled him up.
    That’s how it felt being in this fight. And his dad wasn’t here to rescue him today. His dad would never be able to help him again. Winded once more against the hard concrete, he didn’t have the strength to get up. He drew in a painful rasping breath, rolled on to his back, and the next thing he knew one of the teenagers was on him. A sharp-faced boy who looked to be about eighteen. It was hard to tell, though, because his eyes were bulging out of his head and his face resembled a margherita pizza, livid red with crusty yellow patches, like the worst case of teenage acne Ed had ever seen.
    With a mad, terrified burst of energy Ed just managed to get his hands round the boy’s neck and hold him off at arm’s length.
    The boy was snarling and snorting, which made green snot bubble from his nose. Pinkish-looking saliva foamed from between his rotten teeth, flecked with blood. It mingled with the snot and formed into a dribble that hung down like a rope,