“Andrew,” she gasped, and the word drew her on.
With every step, she lost more of herself. And every step made her past seem like a darker, older place.
They followed Rosemary, carrying the wounded girl between them. Jenna was in and out of consciousness, groaning, moaning from the pain. Jack wanted to check on her wound, but he feared that if they stopped they would never get going again. The strength had been knocked from them. Sparky looked beaten and pale, tired and shocked. Jack thought he seemed smaller than before, as though confirmation of his loss and what they had been through had lessened him somehow.
“Sparky,” he kept saying, just to hear his friend's name and hoping to see the familiar confident, cheeky smile in response. But Sparky's reply was always slow, and weaker by the minute.
Emily walked beside Rosemary. She seemed to be handling things better than any of them.
They dodged from street to alley, square to park, and with every step they took the sounds of conflict receded. At one point they passed an area that seemed to have been flattened by bombing, and Jack asked Rosemary whether what had just happened was a regular occurrence.
“London suffers,” is all she offered in response. “We're almost there.” She went ahead, carrying the gun awkwardly and approaching the front door of an innocuous house in an unremarkable street. She lifted a plant pot containing the skeletal remains of a rose bush, picked up a key and opened the door.
“Is this where he lives?” Jack asked.
“I need to go and fetch him, and I'll be faster on my own.” She glanced at Jenna. “And you two can't carry her much further. She's losing a lot of blood.”
They went inside. The living room had a wide window looking out onto the wild back garden, and they laid Jenna on the sofa. She stirred, groaned, and then relaxed again. Her face was pale and sweat soaked her hair into thick, dark strands.
“Pain killers in the kitchen cupboard,” Rosemary said. “Don't unlock the front door to anyone but me. If there's a knock, or any sign of the Choppers, get out the back door and run as fast as you can. Key's in the lock. There's a gate at the bottom of the garden, and—”
“We can't run anywhere with her,” Sparky said.
“No, you can't.” Rosemary looked grim, and Sparky stepped forward, about to vent his fury. Jack was pleased to see the old Sparky back again.
“We're not going anywhere,” Jack said. “Just find this person you say can help.”
“His name's Ruben,” Rosemary said. “And I'll be back with him soon.” She left the room and strode for the front door, gun slung over one shoulder like a novelty handbag. Jack followed her and grabbed her arm.
“The Superiors,” he said. “My mother. My father. You need to tell me now.”
“There's no time.”
“Please!”
She was holding the front door handle, ready to open it and go out into this dangerous new world once again. She looked exhausted.
“What if you're caught?” he asked. “What if you're killed?”
“I can't explain everything right now, Jack, and if I tell you some of it, you'll want it all.”
“They're alive,” he said, a statement more than a question.
“Yes. Your mother's a healer, similar to me.” She smiled. “I know her well. She lives in a makeshift hospital deep in an old Tube station. Susan's a good woman, Jack, and she talks about you and Emily so much that…I almost feel as if I've known you forever.”
He closed his eyes and tried to recall a memory of his mother from before Doomsday. But he could not. He could only imagine her thin and pale, wasted and in despair, that tatty photograph in his back pocket come to life.
“And Reaper?” he said, looking at Rosemary again. “My father?”
“Your father,” she nodded. “Jack—”