Run, Sam, run. . . .

I’m not coming.”

“What do you mean you’re not coming?”

“I’m not leaving this place, Arran. It’s home. It’s safe. I like it here. I’m not leaving and you can’t make me.”

“Callum, you can’t stay here by yourself.”

“I won’t be by myself. Others will want to stay, just you see. I won’t be alone. Not everyone wants to go.”

“But they’re all outside, waiting. It’s arranged.”

“Ask them,” said Callum. “Ask them if they really want to go, or if they’d rather stay here with me.”

“We took a vote on it,” said Arran wearily.

“No we didn’t. We voted on whether to go into the center of town or into the countryside. You never asked them if they’d all rather just stay here. So ask them.”

“You ask them,” said Arran.

“No,” said Callum. “I’m not going out there. I’m happy here.” He sat down and folded his arms.

“Well, what if one or two did want to stay?” said Arran. “How would you survive, Callum? It’s crazy.”

“I’ll tell you what’s crazy,” said Callum angrily. “You lot, going off out there, just because some weird kid in a patchwork suit turns up. It’s like that fairy story The Pied Piper of Hamelin, where he takes the kids away and, I don’t know, eats them, or something.”

“That’s not what happens.”

“Yeah, well, whatever, it hasn’t got a happy ending. Why did you listen to that idiot? Hmm? Why did you believe him? He’s obviously lying.”

Arran looked around the supermarket, where he had spent the last year of his life. They were on the shop floor, surrounded by row upon row of empty shelving. He was sick of the sight of the place.

“Callum,” he said steadily, “anything’s better than staying here and dying one by one.”

“It doesn’t have to be like that. You do what you want, Arran, but I’m staying.”

“You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” The thought of getting out of here filled Arran with a light, airy feeling. He’d had a bad night. The pain in his neck had steadily grown worse. He didn’t know if he’d slept at all. Now his head was throbbing, his eyes were dry and sore, and he was sweating heavily. The last thing he wanted to do was hang around here worrying about himself.

He looked at Callum, sitting stubbornly in an old armchair, as if nothing in the world could shift him.

“What if the grown-ups get in?” he said.

“They won’t try and get in if they think there’s no one here.”

“They’re bound to try, though, and I mean . . . Jesus, Callum, come on, what will you eat?”

“I can scavenge just like you did. If there’s less of us, there’s less mouths to feed. It’ll be easier, actually.”

“Yes, and what if it’s just you? What then?”

“It won’t be. Loads of other kids will want to stay. You’re forcing us out and we don’t like it.”