“What are they doing?” said Blue.

“God knows.”

Jester whistled. “They’re like a bloody army,” he said. “Can you take them, d’you think?”

“Don’t know,” said Blue. “I’ve never seen so many in one place before. They ain’t usually this organized.”

A smaller group of grown-ups pushed to the front and stepped clear of the pack. Almost as if they were in charge. At the vanguard of this new group was a huge fat father whose neck didn’t seem able to support the great cannonball of a head that lolled over his chest. Random tufts of hair sprouted from his otherwise bald scalp. He was wearing shorts and an England vest with the cross of Saint George on it. A pair of wire-framed glasses with no lenses in them perched on his squashed and rotting nose. He rolled his head back and stared at Arran. It looked like he was laughing.

“They must have been following us,” said Arran, his head clearing as his system was pumped full of adrenalin. “We need to avoid a fight if we can.”

“How we gonna do that?” said Blue. “Look at ’em. They’re not going to go away.”

“We’ll back off,” said Arran. “See what happens. Maybe get to somewhere safer. Somewhere we can defend. Where’s Ollie?”

“Here.”

“Stay with us. We’ll need your firepower.”

He and Blue shouted orders, and the kids began to retreat from the grown-ups. Arran and the best fighters stayed at the back, facing the enemy. The road in the other direction was still clear. Maxie and Lewis kept with their teams on the flanks. The little kids had formed into a tight, frightened bunch in the middle. They were huddled so closely together that it was difficult to keep them moving. They kept bumping into each other and anxiously looking back. Maeve and Whitney goaded them, shoving them along, encouraging them, telling them not to worry, but there was a mounting sense of panic.

Staying indoors all the time, the little kids had been sheltered from the worst of the fighting. They weren’t used to this. Some of the older kids, too. They weren’t all fighters.

The grown-ups kept pace with them, advancing down the hill. Creeping closer. The father in the Saint George vest still at their head.

“Stay together!” Arran shouted.

Then three emaciated grown-ups blundered out from a side street, so starved they might as well have been skeletons. They made a dash toward the little kids to try to separate them from the group, but were swiftly knocked down by Lewis and the Morrisons fighters on that flank. Maxie watched them go into action and was impressed by their skill. Blue had been right: frizzy-haired Lewis might have looked dozy, but he moved fast when he had to, and dealt with the grown-ups ruthlessly and efficiently.

The sudden attack, though, had spooked the little kids. A bunch of them broke away and started to run.

“Stop them!” Maxie yelled, but there was nothing Maeve, Whitney, and the others could do. In a moment the little kids were darting in all directions, and even some of the older kids were starting to run. A bunch barged right past Maxie, who screamed at them to get back, but it was no good.