Blood Crazy by Simon Clark Page B

way was the only way.

Chapter Eighteen
Organization
    Rebecca gave me my orders. The following day I found myself using a forklift truck to stack cases of beans in the warehouse. Kids of all ages, degutted by terror, worked like robots. I watched a sixteen-year-old hooligan with home-made tattoos cry his eyes out when Rebecca told him he wasn’t working hard enough. Poor bastard had been working his bollocks off.
    â€˜Hi, Nick.’ Sarah smiled brightly.
    â€˜Long time no see. Sleep well?’
    â€˜Fine, thanks. Sorry, can’t stop. Too busy.’ She showed me the clipboard. ‘I’ve been promoted to admin. Bye.’
    I watched her go, blonde pony tail swinging sexily.
    PING! Miss Keene’s voice over the PA: ‘Beta team. Beta team. Break time. Recommence work 10.30.’
    â€˜Hey, mate,’ I called to the red-eyed hooligan. ‘Which team have they put you in?’
    â€˜Alpha.’
    â€˜I’m Gamma. Are those Latin letters or names of atoms or what?’
    He was too scared to reply. He worked harder.
    As I shifted baked beans by the ton I kept an eye on the to-ing and fro-ing. More survivors joined the community. Most were brought in by the boys who patrolled the area on bikes. Onefifteen-year-old girl had to be carried in, her face a bruised lump set with two staring eyes.
    Later, two teenagers ran into the compound. One had shit himself.
    They were taken for drinks and the regulation questionnaire. The steering committee were building an empire.
    PING! ‘Gamma team. Break time. Gamma team.’
    On the way to the canteen I saw Mr Genius Del-Coffey in his office. He lay back in a chair, feet on the desk, shoe laces hanging down. Piles of books, laptop computers. An Asian girl of about sixteen was reading to him from a book called
Psychology Today
. The door was wide open.
    Basically he was wanking off. And he wanted everyone to see.
    The canteen was full of kids drinking coke, but hardly anyone spoke. I found myself reading the staff club’s fixture lists for football and table tennis. Teams of men and women who were either dead or mad by now.
    PING! ‘Nick Aten to the delivery bay, please.’
    In
Mash
the medics were interrupted in their high jinks by the speakers announcing ‘Incoming wounded.’ I got incoming self-raising flour.
    I got there as Dave Middleton was legging up and down organizing kids to stack bagged potatoes.
    â€˜Not in the dump bins, Katrina. Over by the doors – they need to be well ventilated. Hi, Nick. Sorry to have to buzz you down. We need to get the flour off the truck quick. Now, Sarah, can you make a note of—’
    Before I got a chance to reach the forklift a boy skidded his mountain bike in through the warehouse doors. He was panting hard.
    â€˜Dave … It’s Mr Creosote. He’s back!’

Chapter Nineteen
Does It Always Have to Be This Way?
    The name Mr Creosote killed Dave’s
Joy to the World
smile. He slapped the clipboard against his leg. But he didn’t swear.
    â€˜Where?’
    â€˜Down by the river footbridge.’
    â€˜How many?’
    â€˜Nine. They’re just hanging around.’
    Dave turned to me. ‘You see, it’s always the same pattern. They flock like birds. A couple arrive. Then one more. Then another three. A couple of hours later there’s a hundred. Only when there’s a certain number, a – a kind of critical mass, do they move in.’
    He seemed to be working it through for his own benefit so I just nodded as he talked.
    â€˜Same routine as last time, Dave?’ asked the boy.
    â€˜Let’s not be hasty. They might disperse. We can’t keep running every time we see Mr Creosote. John, go back and keep an eye on the bridge. Report back every fifteen minutes. Straight away if they start moving. Nick … There’s a path down to the river bank back there. I need you to go and keep an eye on the road on the far side of the