roof. Before I can react, they pull away, cutting their losses, abandoning us.
Which isn't necessarily a bad thing.
The kids are still tumbling out of the lorry, all walking wounded. I briefly search for Jenni, but can't find her in the confusion.
Right, time to take control.
I have no idea who's attacking the convoy. They could be good guys, but they could equally be a rival bunch of snatchers. Until I know, I can't afford to start shooting. I look behind me. There's a side street with a pub on the corner. It's derelict and ruined, but it will have a cellar and that's our best chance of shelter.
'Listen,' I shout. 'Everyone into the pub. Quickly.'
But it's no use. I have no authority here. These kids don't trust me, and why should they? They scatter in all directions, in ones and twos, pure panic. Scurrying for cover or making a break for freedom. I see one duo blindly racing past the snatchers towards the enemy guns. One of them is hit in the crossfire and drops, but the other keeps running and disappears into a tower block.
I feel a hand tugging my coat and I turn to find Jenni pulling me towards the pub.
'Come on,' she says urgently. Then she shouts at the kids who are still pouring from the back of the ruined lorry. 'Come on! This way!' Thankfully, some of them hear, and once they begin to follow us, the others fall in behind them. Jenni and I begin running towards the pub.
We're about ten metres from the door when a man steps out of the doorway. He's about my height, dressed in tracky pants and a thick, quilted coat topped by a beanie. His face is grimy and hard to make out. In his hands he holds a crowbar. He stands with his legs apart and starts smacking the crowbar into the palm of his left hand like a panto actor in Eastenders pretending to be a hard man. He doesn't slow me down. I level my gun at him as I keep running.
Two more men step out of the shadowy pub interior. They're also dressed in rag-tag looter chic, but while one of them dangles a bicycle chain from his right hand, the other has a gun aimed right back at me. Jenni and I skid to a halt, but the kids behind us are too panicked. They sweep past us and then veer right as they see the menacing figures before us.
Instead of heading into the pub the stampede takes off down the side street, leaderless, lost and running into the territory of god knows what kind of gang. I yell at them to stop, but nobody's listening.
'Leave the kids alone, bitch,' shouts the man in the middle over the sound of pattering feet and, I realise, nothing else — the gunfire behind us has stopped.
'She's not one of them,' shouts Jenni. 'She was a prisoner, like us.'
'Then she can drop the gun,' replies the man.
I aim it at his head. 'And let you take them instead? I don't think so. Stay close Jenni.'
I notice that the tide of children is ebbing and that some of them have gathered around us. I glance down briefly and recognise a number of faces from the school. About five of the kids we tried to rescue have rallied to my defence.
'She's telling the truth,' pipes up a boy so tiny he can only be about eight. 'She tried to help us.' I make a mental note to hug the life out of him if we get out of this alive.
'Doesn't matter,' comes a loud voice from behind us. 'She's still a fucking adult. You can't trust them. Everybody step away from her. NOW.'
Such is the authority in this woman's voice that four of the kids peel away and begin running to catch up with their fellow escapees. It's only Jenni and the pipsqueak left.
I turn to face this new player.
In the distance I can see the snatchers lying dead in the road, and between us and them stands a group of ten children. And then I do a quick double take back at the pub doorway and realise that they're not men — they've got the slightly out of proportion, weed-thin tallness of teenage boys.
I look back at the group in front of us. They're all teenagers. Only two have guns, the rest brandish truncheons, chains and even pitchforks. One of the kids with a shotgun, a girl, steps out of the crowd and takes point. She's wearing a brown fur coat tied around the waist with a leather belt; she's got a grey hoodie on underneath the coat and she pulls the hood off, releasing a cascade of greasy red hair.
The sun is behind her so I still can't quite make out her face.
I lower my gun. 'I really was a prisoner. I'm not of the snatchers.'
She doesn't reply.
'Honestly, I'm trying to help these children,' I plead.
The girl steps forward and suddenly I can make out her face. It takes me a second, but then I gasp in shock.
'Well you took your fucking time,' says Caroline.
The scars on the right side of her face look like the worst case of acne I've ever seen. I remember the cleaner's shotgun blast peppering her with shot, seeing her fall, working all evening to sterilise and dress her wounds. Failing to save her right eye.
I don't know what it looks like under the eye patch she's fashioned from elastic and felt, and I don't ask permission to look.
She's taller but still very solid. She'd be pretty if it weren't for her injuries, and her hair is stunning. I spent so long looking for her; it's hard to believe she's actually standing in front of me.
The last time I saw her she was being taken into the hospital at the Operation Motherland base, Rowles at her side. I had assumed that was where she remained until the nuclear blast. But when Lee had recovered from his injuries enough to be able to communicate again, he told me that she wasn't there. The Americans knew nothing about her. She had vanished from under their noses even as Sanders and I were escaping in the opposite direction.
I spread the word that I was looking for her to all our contacts, but I never heard so much as a whisper. Her trail had gone cold by the time I knew to start looking.
I look at the short, square, scarred pirate Jenny in front of me, gun in hand, defiant, leading an army of children, and I feel a strange sort of pride.
'That's my girl,' I whisper.
She hands me a mug of hot milk, which I take thankfully, warming my frozen fingers.
'Fresh water's hard to get here,' she explain. 'But there's a guy who comes to market with milk once a week got, so…'
We're awkward with each other. Not quite sure what to say. We slip into survivalist small talk — where do you get medicine, what do you use for fuel, do you have a generator?
We're sitting on a ragged old sofa in the middle of a huge open plan office. Third floor, centre of the high street. The desks and chairs have been cleared away and the floor is a mad maze of old beds and sofas, with long clear runs where the younger kids race around, burning off the little energy they have.
It's a headquarters, of sorts. There must be thirty or so kids living here; closer to a hundred now we've rounded up most of the escapees from the convoy. My hands ache from all the stitching and splinting I've been performing on the injured from the attack. Medical supplies are non-existent, so I've been using all sorts of dodgy unsterilized kit. The sooner I can get these kids out of here and back to the safety of St Mark's, the better. We have enough supplies there to deal with the imminent avalanche of secondary infections. But for now, the last child has been mended and the majority of them are sleeping it off.
Caroline is the leader here, even though there are older, stronger kids in the mix. There are hulking great teenage boys who take orders from her without question.
It takes a while for me to ask the obvious question. 'Where are we?'
'Hammersmith.'
'Jesus, that far in? I thought this was Bromley. What's it like in the centre?'
'Church land. We don't go there.'
'Church…? Never mind. Tell me later.' Small talk exhausted, I lean forward and ask the big question. 'What happened, Caroline? Where did you go?'
She looks down for moment then, talking to her shoes, whispers: 'Rowles?'
'He died, Caroline. I'm sorry.'
