Gillian looked across at Harold, gave him a single nod, then leaped onto the top of the blast door. She pulled out what looked, to anyone who didn't know what it was, like a fist-sized lump of play-doh but which was actually plastic explosive.
“Stay back.” Harold motioned Dill and Jasfoup out of the way. “If anything happens to Gillian and I, I need one of you get Lucy out of here.”
“Consider it done mate, though I need to know where to take her. I mean, I can't look after a kid, can I? I'm barely into adulthood myself, you know?” Dill flashed him a nervous grin. “I got my whole life ahead of me yet. Death, I mean. I've got my whole death in front of me. Should I take her to your mother's? That'd be best, wouldn't it? She could be one of those sad kids you see in children's books who grows up with their gran.”
“I think Harold meant me.” Jasfoup darted past and hefted the child into his arms. “I can slip into the tunnels and be away with her faster than you could lick her eyeballs.”
“Oh. Right.” Dill frowned, an expression Harold knew was difficult for him since it involved so many conscious muscles to manipulate. “I get it. Never trust a zombie with your toddler.”
“No offence intended, mate.” Harold hefted the weight of the spell in his mind. It slipped into his vocal cords like treacle around a honey dipper. He nodded to Gillian. “Ready?”