The Fury (38 page)

‘They’re here,’ said Schiller.

Rilke straightened at the sound of her brother’s voice, the first words he’d spoken since this all started. He sounded the same, and yet different. There was a hidden depth to that familiar, whining tone.
Something
ageless which resonated inside her skull.

She stared at him. His hands were still alight, painting the room in a shimmering glow. As she watched, the fire spread up his arms, engulfing his torso and his neck and finally his face. His eyes were two raging suns, their light overwhelming. Rilke gazed into them, and it was like she was looking through her twin into a realm of pure being, a place of terrifying, mesmerising power.

Schiller shrugged, and this time two translucent wings unfurled elegantly behind him, stretching over his head like twin sails. They seemed to shimmer in and out of being, as if they were made from nothing more than air, heat. He extended them, their tips almost bridging the gap between the restaurant walls, and when he folded them again they unleashed a hurricane of wind. It sent Marcus and Jade rolling across the room, tables and chairs crashing into the walls, but Rilke held her ground against the cold blast, kneeling before her brother like someone praying at an altar.

She had never loved him more.

‘You know what you have to do,’ Rilke said to him. He cocked his head, unsure.

‘I think so.’

‘You
know
so,’ Rilke said, standing and taking a step towards him. ‘Because I’ve told you why you’re here, why this is happening. Don’t disappoint me, Schiller. Don’t disappoint
them
.’

Schiller’s fire flared, and he smiled at her.

‘I won’t, sister. I promise.’

Jade was crawling frantically back, her eyes like saucers. She lay prostrate beside Rilke, laughing. Marcus huddled against the back wall, shaking his head. Schiller extended his wings again, and with a gentle effort he raised himself into the air. He began to move, not walking, just gliding a foot or so off the ground. Beneath him, things seemed to grow from the floor – tremulous shapes that looked like budding plants but which were made of flame, twisting and dissolving after a second or two.

‘Where is he going?’ asked Jade.

‘To do what he was called here to do,’ Rilke said, watching her brother float ghost-like towards the doors. He pushed through them, and the wood evaporated at his touch, blossoming into a cloud of dust and ash which defied gravity, buoyed up by the energy streaming from him. Rilke followed him as he descended the stairs, Jade huddled against her, Marcus too, all of them treading carefully over the carpet of glowing tendrils in Schiller’s wake. He still gave off that
subsonic
hum, a sound that made the air tremble.

‘To do what we were all called here to do,’ Rilke said. She was giddy with excitement, a surge of insane glee which rattled up her throat and exploded from her grinning lips. ‘He’s going to start a war.’

Brick led the way down the side of the Boo Boo Station, his face a grimace of panic as the helicopter swept overhead. A tornado of rubbish swirled in the narrow alley, the world shaken by the helicopter’s relentless thunder. Cal kept hold of Daisy’s hand, screwing his eyes shut against the grit, trying to remember the way. He could hear Brick calling out:

‘Where are we going?’ At least that’s what it sounded like. There was no air any more, just the howling dust.

He opened his eyes as much as he dared, pointing up the path.

‘Pavilion,’ he shouted. It wouldn’t exactly be safe, but there was nowhere else to go. In seconds the park would be infested with police, all of them feral. If they could get inside then they might be able to barricade the doors, hold up until they thought of a plan. Brick shrugged, cupping a hand to his ear. ‘Pavilion!’ Cal repeated, as loud as he could manage.

He didn’t wait to see if Brick had understood, just dragged Daisy to the end of the path then up past the carousel. The chopper banked round the big wheel, the wind easing up. In the sudden lull Cal could make out voices behind them. He looked back in time to see the main gates balloon inwards, spitting shrapnel. There was the growl of an engine, and with a massive crunch the chains snapped. A Land Rover barrelled into the park, its bonnet smoking, and a river of police streamed after it.

‘Do not move!’ one of them shouted, pointing right at Cal. ‘Or we will open fire.’

Open fire?

Three helmeted cops with sub-machine guns ran to the front of the pack. They crouched, aiming the weapons down the path. Even from here Cal could see that their fingers were on the triggers. Who could blame them? They’d just seen their mates get blown into ash. He slung his hands up, turning to the others, mouthing,
What do we do?

But there was nothing they could do. If they ran, the chances were they’d be mown down. If they stayed, they’d be torn to pieces as soon as the cops got close enough.

‘We’re just kids,’ Cal shouted. ‘Don’t shoot.’

‘Stay where you are,’ shouted the same man as before. Some of the cops were moving cautiously forward.

‘Please don’t,’ Daisy said, sobbing. ‘If you come near us then bad things will happen. Please stay away.’

‘Yeah,’ said Brick, his voice cracked in a hundred places. ‘We’ve got a bomb.’

The police hesitated.

‘A bomb?’ hissed Cal, looking at Brick. ‘They’re definitely going to shoot us now.’

‘We need you to put the device on the ground,’ the man shouted, his words almost drowned out by the helicopter that circled overhead. ‘And step away. Do this now, or we will be forced to shoot.’

‘Now what?’ Cal said.

‘Hell do I know?’ Brick spat. He took a step backwards, his hands locked in his hair.

‘Brick, stay still for God’s sake,’ Cal said. But the boy wasn’t listening, taking another step, and another. His body was tense, like he was going to bolt. ‘Brick,
don’t!
’

As he spoke, he realised that the helicopter wasn’t the loudest sound in the park any more. There was something else, a hum inside his head, soft but deafening. It was like the noise an amp makes when you stick an electric guitar in it but don’t play any notes, a dull buzz which was making his skull vibrate. Brick could obviously hear it too, because he clamped his hands to his ears, crying out.

A howling shriek, one of the cops stepping past the invisible line of the Fury. His face shrivelled into something that was only just human, white rage driving him on. Someone else, a policewoman, chased after him, turning feral, both of them hurling themselves down the path.

There was nothing else to do. Cal turned and ran, they all did, as the air behind them was torn apart by gunfire.

Adrenalin made the world turn in slow motion.
Something
whistled past Brick’s ear, sounding like a hornet, stinging his flesh. He ducked down, his arms and legs like pistons as he sprinted towards the pavilion, his brain screaming
Not me, not me, not me
in time with every pounding step. He didn’t look back – not
because
of the fear but because of the guilt of leaving the others.

He made it halfway before he saw it, the sight stripping away every grain of strength and making him crash to his knees.

Schiller floated from the pavilion, bathed in flames, the building’s walls literally peeling away from him like the edges of burning paper. His feet didn’t touch the ground, an invisible force holding him up. Something extended from his back: a pair of wings made up of gossamer-thin flames. The boy’s face wasn’t his any more – his eyes were twin furnaces which blazed out across the park, devoid of all emotion. It was the most terrifying thing Brick had ever seen.

There was more gunfire, but distant now. It no longer seemed to matter. Brick heard cries, the cry of the Fury, but he couldn’t quite remember how to be scared. He could only gaze at Schiller as the boy advanced. He would look at him forever, even if it burned his eyes from their sockets. Was it possible that a creature like this lived inside him too, dormant for now but ready to wake and embrace the same power? For the first time he believed it, he believed what Rilke had said.

Schiller reached him, making the path erupt into a forest of fiery plants which curled up and vanished as quickly as they appeared. The hum in the air was incredible, a current of pure energy. Brick shuffled round on his knees, watching the boy – the
angel
– as he glided towards the front of the park.

It was chaos over there. Cal was on the ground, pinned by two cops, his legs kicking out helplessly as they tore at him. Daisy and Adam were still running, both of them blinded by tears. Behind them was a seething wall of feral police. The three men with guns were still firing. A bullet punched through Daisy’s shoulder, emerging from the other side and dragging a comet tail of dark red blood behind it. The impact threw her forward, rolling her over in the dirt until she slid to a halt, motionless.

‘Daisy!’ Brick shouted. He raced over, skidding down beside her and lifting her head. Her eyes were open, but they weren’t seeing anything. Adam was there too, holding her hand in both of his, tugging on it like he was trying to wake her up. ‘No!’ Brick shouted, the word as weak and as useless as he was, drowned out by the gunfire and the roar of the helicopter and that endless, nightmare hum.

Brick lifted her up and pushed his hand against the wound, blood spilling through his fingers, so hot it felt like it was scalding him. He held her, wanting it to be over, wanting it all to end. It was just too much.

Schiller turned his head, surveying the park with those soulless pockets of light. The men with guns had turned their weapons on him – aside from one, who had ripped off his helmet and was gouging at his own face in a fit of insanity. The bullets seemed to freeze when they reached the boy, hanging in the air in front of him and forming a shimmering curtain of lead. With a swipe of his hand, Schiller scattered the bullets in all directions, a dozen cops thrown backwards as their heads and chests exploded.

Kill them
, Brick screamed silently. And he wanted it more than anything. These pathetic, murderous humans who had broken into his home, who had attacked his friends. They had given up their right to life. He clutched Daisy to him, firing out the message to the boy who hung in his cradle of flame.
Kill them all, kill them now
.

A hand dropped onto his shoulder and he looked up to see Rilke there. Jade and Marcus were behind her, both of them transfixed by the creature before them. Rilke smiled at him.

‘He will,’ she said, turning her face up, bathed in her brother’s golden glow. ‘Watch.’

Schiller opened his arms, like he was about to hug someone. His eyes settled on the police. More and more of them were turning feral, running up the path towards the angel. Even the ones that had been stamping on Cal switched their target, throwing themselves at the floating boy.

They didn’t even get close.

Without so much as touching them, Schiller lifted the two closest men into the air and turned them inside out – their bodies folding and refolding until they were nothing more than mangled meat. He flicked his hand and the ruined corpses sailed over the park, rising into the darkening sky as though launched by a catapult. The other ferals didn’t notice and continued to charge mindlessly towards him with bared teeth and clawed fingers.

Schiller cocked his head and another dozen cops were scooped up by the same invisible force. This time they were thrown at each other, crushed into a giant sphere of flailing limbs. It spun wildly, growing smaller and smaller with a chorus of cracking bones until those twelve men and women were no bigger than a beach ball. The knotted lump of flesh slammed into the ground with enough force to shatter the concrete, a web of cracks stretching out from the crater.

This isn’t right
, something in Brick protested. He pushed it aside. He didn’t want to hear it.

The helicopter was retreating, pulling up fast. Schiller pumped those vast wings and launched himself into the air. He rose alongside the machine, and even though he didn’t lay a finger on it the rotors buckled and twisted, breaking free with an ear-shattering squeal. The rest of the chopper began to crumple, something red and wet blossoming behind the shattered windscreen. Then the wreck jolted to the side with incredible force, ploughing a hole through the pavilion and the fence beyond, carving a mile-long trench across the surface of the sea.

The ferals were still coming, but Schiller had only just started to experiment with his powers. He dropped back down, stopping just above the ground and stretching his arms out once again. The electrical hum grew louder, making Brick’s eardrums feel like they were about to implode. The flames around the boy were as bright as magnesium flares, burning a hole in the very surface of reality. His mouth opened, a pocket of utter brilliance.

And he spoke.

His voice was wordless and world ending. It was a roar that ripped through the air and shook the ground to dust. Everything before it fractured and disintegrated – the concrete and the stone beneath, the Land Rover, the bricks in the walls, the metal gates, the flesh and blood and bones of the ferals, the mud and grass in the field beyond – a tidal wave of broken matter which rose into the air, blotting out every last scrap of sunlight.

Brick cried out, teetering on the brink of madness as that cloud rose and rose into an endless, lightless night.

Then Schiller’s voice died and the night died with it, a million tons of debris falling back to its resting place. Brick curled into himself, the noise impossible, utterly terrifying. The world shook, and shook, and shook.

And finally fell silent.