Contagion (Toxic City, #3)(9)
She passed a small square with a park at the centre. It was overgrown, and the trees’ heavy canopies moved with something other than the breeze. Things whispered in there, secret mutterings that might have been about her. She ducked into an open front door and ran through the property, out across the backyard to the alley beyond, over a high wall into another garden, and smashed a window to gain access to another house. Three people were sitting around a table, dried bodies slumped down in their chairs and a meal gone black before them. Lucy-Anne left them to their peace and opened the front door.
The street beyond was silent, and she ran.
Moments later, something emerged from that house and came after her.
She froze in the middle of the street and turned around, but there was nothing to see. Not one of those monsters, she thought. She didn't know how she could be so sure, but she clung on to that certainty. It followed, but without malevolence. Perhaps it was an echo of herself, the memory of what she had been or what she might have become had Rook not died. Her dream-shadow.
How she wished she could dream him back again. But she had already seen how that had ended.
“Who are you?” Lucy-Anne shouted. Her loud voice shocked her, echoing between buildings that had been silent for so long. She wondered whether a city could haunt itself. Somewhere so accustomed to the sounds of traffic and human interaction must find silence so strange.
Nothing and no one answered.
“Come out!” she said. “I don't bite.” She laughed, perhaps a little manically. She was the only thing she'd met in London that didn't bite.
So she moved on instead, glancing back every now and then, seeing nothing, but knowing nonetheless that something saw her.
Along streets, across squares, crossing road junctions clotted with crashed vehicles, Lucy-Anne headed south. She navigated by the sun—it had just risen, so she kept it on her left—and she thought how her father would have chuckled at that. He'd been a Scout leader when he was younger, and though Andrew had always been keen to listen to his dad, Lucy-Anne had been the rebellious one. She could see no sense in camping in the woods with a bunch of kids when she could be causing trouble in town with her friends. There was no point in learning knots and how to build a fire, when finding a pub that would serve them cheap, strong cider was so much more fun. If he could see her now, he'd tell her that she was doing well at gaining her Survival Badge.
She found herself at a T-junction, and across the road was the entrance to an industrial estate. In either direction along the road, the opposite side was lined with the bland grey metal of industrial and business units, and the map on the board at the entrance showed how vast it was. Straight through would be far easier than skirting around it. And at least from what she could see there was less traffic clogging the roads.
As soon as she entered, the noises began. Clanging, dragging. Something following her across rooftops. Something with claws.
She ducked into a large unit and hurried through to the other side. It was stacked with countless boxes of computer screens, millions of pounds in value now worth nothing. They weren't edible, couldn't burn, and would be useless as weapons. She hurried through, still listening for those sounds of pursuit.
She found a fire escape that hung open, the door propped against the sad skeletal remnants of someone who'd wanted to die in the sunlight. She listened, heard nothing.
But she knew that meant little.
Why the hell couldn't I have wandered into a unit that made machine guns and bazookas? she thought as she burst from the door.
Heart hammering, she glanced up at the sky, expecting to see rooks following her progress. But the sky was a bright, blank blue. A beautiful day.
She was thirsty and hungry, her head throbbed, and she was not used to such excessive exercise. But still she ran. She heard something scampering across metal, but she couldn't tell how heavy the something was, nor how far away. She passed by a white van slewed across the road and caught sight of its contents through the open side door—piles of board games, still stacked as if ready for children to take their pick. She thought briefly about jumping into the driver's seat and slamming the door, but if the engine did not fire she might trap herself in there while those pursuing things came for her.
She drew the knife from her belt and held it blade-forward, ready to jab and slash.
Inside another unit, and here the smell was so familiar that it made her gasp aloud. Shoes. Storage racks were stacked with thousands of boxes of new trainers, and a few were scattered around beneath the shelves, bright white and coloured objects that looked so out of place. These were proper running shoes, and she remembered shopping for them with her mother when she had taken up running several years before. She'd watched her mother on a treadmill while the shop assistant analysed videos of her gait, prescribing a certain type of shoe and bringing out her recommendations. Afterwards they had gone to a Starbucks and Lucy-Anne had eaten a shortbread while her mother drank coffee and examined her shoes. The smell conjured this completely detailed memory, and also the more recent dream during which Lucy-Anne had sensed her parents buried in one of London's mass graves.
Tears beaded in her eyes, and she wiped them away.
Approaching a door at the rear of the unit she skidded to a stop. There was a huddle of bodies against the wall, shrivelled, dried skin hanging on grinning skulls. More stories she'd never know. The door was closed, and she checked it quickly for locks. The moment she opened it she wanted to be running, and if she made a noise rattling the handle against locks, then—