With a great war cry, the boys charged, and the rest of the dogs scattered.

Ollie quickly searched the area for his ammunition. He found his second ball lying in the gutter. The first one was stuck in the pit bull’s head in a neat crease of broken bone.

The five of them knelt by the dead body.

“Can we risk eating it?” said Freak. “What’s that parasite Maeve’s always going on about? That worm thing you can catch from eating dog? Tricky something.”

“Trichinosis,” said Arran. “He’ll be all right if he’s well cooked.”

“Yeah,” said Deke. “We’ll deep-fry him in batter, with some fries and a nice glass of wine. Delicious.”

Freak giggled. “I know a gourmet recipe for fried dog.”

“We can’t waste any food,” said Arran. “Some of the kids are getting really thin. Leave the German shepherd, though. He’s too big to carry and his carcass might keep the pack busy.”

Achilleus took out his knife and gutted the dead animal, leaving the purple-gray entrails in the road to further distract the other dogs.

He then tied the dog’s legs together with some nylon cord and slung it over Arran’s shoulder.

“Should we go back?” said Freak.

“We need to find as much food as we can,” said Arran. “It’s always a risk leaving camp, and it gets riskier every time. The dog’s not enough for twenty of us.”

Every day a scavenging party left the camp to look for supplies. They searched among the empty houses and apartments for any abandoned cans, packages, and bottles. Each time they had to start their search farther from Waitrose. All the buildings close by had long since been picked clean. Most days they found nothing, but a lucky discovery could last them a long time.

They knew it couldn’t last, though. They had already been through every accessible building within a mile of Waitrose, except around Crouch End, which had been destroyed in a fire, and up around the Arsenal soccer stadium, where there was a large nest of grown-ups.

Sooner or later they would have to move camp.

But where would they go?

Arran pushed his hair out of his eyes. His guts hurt. He didn’t really feel hungry anymore, just sick and tired. He’d grown to hate these streets. The smell of them, the filth everywhere, the grass and weeds pushing out of every crack, the constant fear chewing away at him. He had been happy at first when they’d made him leader, but then it slowly dawned on him that he was responsible for everyone else. If anything went wrong he had to take the blame. That was why someone like Achilleus, who could easily beat him in a fight, was happy not to be in charge. He could show off and suck up the praise, but when a tough decision had to be made, he would sit back, hold up his hands, and let Arran sweat it out.

It was a warm and sunny spring day. There was a real sense that summer wasn’t far off. Normally Arran would have enjoyed the sunshine and warmth. In the past he had always loved seeing the first green leaves come out on the trees, as if the world were waking up. Now it just meant that the grown-ups were getting bolder. In the winter they’d been too cold and feeble to be much danger, but the change in the weather seemed to give them new courage and strength. Their attacks were becoming more frequent.