A mother came at him; he could only tell it was a mother from the remains of the clothes she was wearing. Her face wasn’t a face any more, it was just one huge swollen boil, a featureless blister. He smashed the brick into the part where her nose should have been, cursed as he was sprayed with hot liquid. Saw that there was nothing left of her face; it had burst, exposing the skeletal bones beneath it. Somehow the mother kept upright, though, and her eyes were still intact, staring at him.

‘Go down,’ he screamed and hit her in the mouth with the brick, shattering her teeth. Kept going. Threw the brick at a father. Stuck another in the thigh with his spear.

‘There’s too many to fight.’ Jake was struggling in a clump of adults, working hard with his own spear.

‘Not for me, Jake. This is payback time.’ Like he was in some dumb action movie.

Mick went hard into the mob of grown-ups around Jake, keeping two hands on the shaft of his spear, wide apart, stabbing, butting with the blunt end, smashing the shaft into their stupid, bloated faces.

This was what he was good at.

Someone was by his side, fighting alongside him. He turned to smile, assuming it was Jake. It wasn’t. It was a short father with a bright red face.

‘Get lost,’ Mick snorted and shoved him aside. There was Jake, over by the wall of the warehouse, fighting off the pack of grown-ups, and now Mick saw that they all seemed to be carrying weapons of some sort, stones and sticks, bits of rusted metal.

‘Watch out!’

His fault if Jake got hurt. Had to help him. Shouldn’t be here. What was he doing? Shouldn’t have started this fight.

Jake went down with a small cry of pain, the grown-ups on him, slashing and gouging. Mick kicked into them, pushing with his spear, careful not to stab Jake, who was in this mass of bodies somewhere.

No. Gone.

Where was he?

Jake?

Mick looked around, trying to find some sign of where his friend was. Gasped as something hit him in the neck. Felt a warm flow of blood down under his shirt.

Who did that?

A big father with one eye … Like the cat … Sharp teeth … Bits of jagged glass in each hand. Blood pouring down his forearms. Cutting himself as badly as he’d cut Mick.

Not allowed to stand. Not this one. A spear thrust to the belly. Out and back again and, as the father bent forward, a third jab into the back of the neck. Go down. Die.

So much blood.

Where was Jake?

Just grown-ups, everywhere, backing away from him, defeated, retreating. Cowards. Useless sick morons. Run.

Where was Jake?

Find Jake.

So much blood. He looked down. His clothes were wet. Couldn’t bear to touch the wound on his neck. Scared of what he’d find.