Brooke he knew about. She was OK. Not the world’s greatest fighter, but he could count on her to hold her own and not run screaming and put the rest of them in danger trying to look after her.

Kyle. Well, as far as Lewis could tell, Kyle was a psycho. And psychos were useful in a fight. As long as they were on your side.

It was Ed he was most worried about.

Good at giving orders.

Could he fight?

Well, they were about to find out.

‘Do it.’

Brooke muttered something under her breath, tugged the handle and slid the door all the way back. A waft of hot, stinking air came into the car, and the noise of them, a murmuring, hissing, gurgling sound. There was a solid wall of grown-ups standing there, surprised by this sudden change. Lewis jammed the butt of the shotgun into his shoulder, squeezed the first trigger. Rocked back.

The blast was deafening. There was a bright flash and a whole section of the grown-ups fell away in a confusion of smoke and blood.

He carried on pulling, felt the second trigger, squeezed.

Another bright flash, an ear-popping bang, a gout of smoke as the pellets from the shell sprayed out, in a widening cone, and another load of grown-ups simply weren’t there any more.

For a brief moment there was emptiness by the side of the car. Silence, except for the ringing in his ears. Above it all, Lewis could see the moon, a strange red colour, like someone had painted it with blood. And then Ed and Kyle were out of the car. Ed with his sword, Kyle with his axe, roaring a battle cry, already swinging the big heavy blade to the right and left.

Lewis tried to remember who was next out, what was the plan? It had all happened so fast and the gun blasts had rattled his brains.

Was it him or Brooke out next?

‘Go!’ Brooke shouted. ‘Go, Lewis, go.’

That was it, yes. Drop the gun. Grab the sword. Get out. Fight.

The grown-ups had fallen away at first, but were now surging back towards the car, attracted by the noise and movement. Lewis chopped and slashed and stabbed, forcing his way through them, making space for Brooke and Ebenezer, who pulled the car door shut behind him with a heavy clunk.

Brooke looked panicked. The reality of so many rabid grown-ups was overwhelming. They pressed in from all around, hot and damp and putrid. Lewis was aware of eyes and teeth, grasping hands with long fingernails, drool and snot and pus. His katana, sharp as a razor, cut into them, chopping off bits of flesh, drawing red lines across faces, ripping through clothing, sinking into soft bellies and spilling guts.

‘This is too much,’ Ebenezer shouted. ‘There are too many.’