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By Root 288 0

socks soaked. My knees were blue and the cold in my toes was more than pain. At least my duffel coat was warm. I kept my mittened hands deep in the pockets. I still wore the oversized slicker Mr Okehurst had issued, like a poncho. That meant I had appropriated School property and taken it off the grounds.

'I don't think we can do this trip in one go,' I said.

We looked back at the school, still in sight at the top of the hill. Our footprints in the snow were filling in.

'This is pathetic, Susan,' said Gillian. 'It's only a little snow.'

Captain Brent had an ice moustache and white eyebrows.

We pressed on, struggling to the bottom of the hill and a usually busy main road.

Four soldiers in arctic gear – fur-lined parkas and enviable boots – manned a check-point. A fire burned in a barrel, as if for roasting chestnuts. An armoured car was making its careful way along the road, steering around abandoned, snowed-in vehicles.

A soldier saluted Captain Brent.

'As you were, man,' he said. 'I've been incommunicado. What's the sit-rep?'

The corporal, an acne-pitted youth, didn't know what to say.

'We were ordered to maintain this point, sir. Last night. After the incident in Piccadilly Circus.'

'Incident?'

'Some sort of ice-storm, sir. They say it was like a glacier, but alive. A lot of casualties. Most of our mob were sent over there, to pitch in. Then reports started coming from all over London. Same sort of thing. A lot of confusion. We got a general order to crack down on looters and rioters, then comms went up the spout. A lot of dead air. Lieutenant Perkins authorised us to use live ammo, then went off to get more orders from HQ.'

'Scarpered, more like,' someone muttered.

'We battened down the hatches here,' said the spotty corporal, 'but only had a couple of false alarms in the night.'

The soldiers must have huddled round their brazier while the Cold Knights were killing people in Coal Hill Road.

'We should have been relieved at zero three hundred hours,' said the corporal.

'Are you our relief, sir?' asked another soldier, a private. 'Only we've not had so much as a cuppa.'

John, Gillian and I gathered around the barrel-brazier, extending our hands over the burning coals, trying to get as close to the heated rusty metal without actually touching it.

'Is this some sort of an exercise, sir?' asked the corporal. 'Surely, we're not at War?'

'I'm supposed to have leave today,' said the private.

'I imagine all leave is cancelled,' said the Captain. There was grumbling.

'All tea is cancelled,' said Gillian. 'The army is cancelled.'

Corporal Spots goggled at Gillian.

'Don't talk daft, miss. Listen to this officer. He knows the score. Sorry, sir, but some of these kids ... '

Captain Brent beamed indulgently. His cheeks were purple with cold.

'It's best not to talk to Dad, Corp,' said John.

It was sleeting badly, lumps battering down.

Through the roaring wind, I heard a sound. I turned and looked back up the hill towards the school.

'Flamin' Nora!,' said Gillian.

Three snowballs were rolling down the road in formation, picking up snow and grit as they tumbled. They were the spearhead of a deliberate avalanche, a purposeful wall of white.

The snowballs grew.

The ball in the lead, which had ice-spikes protruding from its sides, weaved around a stalled car, but the avalanche swept over everything. A startled man, stepping out of his front door, was borne under, incorporated into the snowfall, disappearing in a tumble of limbs.

We all got out of the way, abandoning the post.

The avalanche hit the checkpoint, smashing the wooden barrier to pulp, and knocked over the brazier, instantly extinguishing the coals. One soldier, clumsy in his winter gear, tripped. Snow slammed down on him. The avalanche growled like a thousand lions, hurling wickedly curved chunks of ice out of its heart.

Rather than fan out when it hit the level street, the avalanche turned away from us, led by the three huge snowballs, and ran up against the armoured car. I saw the metal