Blood Crazy by Simon Clark

sounded indestructibly cheerful. ‘I know it’s only a few days since, but things came together quite quickly … This is where the girls sleep. What we’re not short of is beds. Boys sleep in the warehouse at the back there. This way, please. Watch your feet, Sarah, Michael’s been careless with the packing … Michael, don’t forget to put the plastic sheets in the sacks. We don’t want anyone falling over them. Right, where was I … Oh, that’s it. Within two days we’d collected fifty-six people, some we literally picked upfrom the street – from toddlers to the eldest, that’s Rebecca Keene, she’s eighteen. We put together a convoy of vehicles and set out to find somewhere safe to stay. This seemed the best. It’s secure. There are no windows apart from those at the front where the main doors are. We’re going to protect that area with a barbed wire compound. You’ll notice we’ve got electricity. The store has emergency generators.’
    We followed him upstairs into what would have been the manager’s office. Its mirror windows looked out across the hangar-size store, beds and furniture stretching to the distant doors. Children and teenagers buzzed up and down the aisles each with their own task – none slacked.
    â€˜Excuse me a moment.’ Dave picked up a microphone. His voice rolled across the place like God’s own. ‘Rebecca Keene. Rebecca Keene and Martin Del-Coffey to the office, please. Oh, and can I have everyone’s attention? Will all those handling barbed wire remember they must wear gloves. Thank you.’ He swivelled back to smile at us. ‘Right, I’ll introduce you to the Steering Committee.’
    Steering Committee. By that I guessed he meant ‘bosses.’
    Sarah caught my eye. Just a bit, she raised her eyebrows. If we weren’t running for our lives she’d have found this amusing.
    Me? Me, I’d have laughed my frigging socks off.
    Then Dave Middleton went into detail. He listed the vehicles, food and bottled water reserves, medicines, the group’s objectives. He even had something called a mission statement he’d written in blue and red and pinned to the wall. As he talked a bony girl in a blue headscarf joined us, very sober faced. Another holy roller, I decided. This was Rebecca Keene. Then came a sixteen-year-old with wispy blond hair and a high forehead. His untied laces trailed along the floor. This was the steering committee.
    â€˜I must confess.’ Dave smiled. ‘We’re self-appointed. Once we’re settled we’ll hold elections so everyone can decide who will be in charge. Rebecca and I have experience of leading youth groups through our work at St Timothy’s. Martin Del-Coffey here is our resident genius. You might have seen features on him in the local newspaper. He has the highest recorded IQ for his age in the area covered by Doncaster’s Education Authority.’
    Bully for him. I’d have said that a week ago. Not now though. My cockiness had been yanked out. I nodded politely.
    Rebecca spoke in a schoolmistress voice. ‘It’s individuals of Martin’s calibre who will restore our society to what it was before.’
    â€˜Only better.’ Martin did not smile. He was there for brains not for charm.
    â€˜Excuse me.’ Dave spoke into the PA. ‘Alpha team. Alpha team. Lunchbreak. Remember to be out of the canteen by twelve. We’ve lots of work to get through today.’
    On the shop floor I saw a third of the kids stop whatever they were doing and head for a doorway at the back of the store.
    The steering committee questioned us and I realised we were being assessed. If we didn’t reach a certain mark were we out the door?
    At one point a boy of about eleven tapped on the door and gave some kind of report. ‘We’ve done the circuit, Dave.’
    â€˜Anything?’
    â€˜Mr Creosote in a