ZOM-B 11 (13 page)

I stare at his hands and frown uncertainly.

‘Damn it, B, I can’t make my position any clearer,’ he growls, losing patience. ‘It’s obvious you don’t trust me, and I understand why you feel that way. But
I’m not going to have you scrutinising my every word and gesture. Accept me as an ally or cut me off and go your own way. But don’t hang around and doubt me. I deserve better than
that.’

‘Do you?’ I ask bluntly.

‘I risked my life for you,’ he snarls.

I shrug. ‘I didn’t ask you to.’

His nostrils flare and he points an angry finger at me. Then he squints, takes a second to think about it and sighs.

‘You’re right. You didn’t. And I’m doing what I said I wouldn’t — trying to persuade you to stay. Make up your own mind. I’m not going to try to charm
you.’

Barnes gets up, roots through a pile of books on a shelf, chooses one and sits again, opening it quietly and carefully, as if in a library.

I watch him reading for a couple of minutes. It’s some old spy novel. I think my dad had a copy of it at home.

‘Tell me I can trust you,’ I say softly.

‘No.’ Barnes lowers the book slightly. ‘But I’ll tell you this, even though I’m probably wasting my breath. I wasn’t sure if life was worth living after I
buried Stuart. I didn’t sob or howl at the moon. That’s not the sort of guy I am. But I sat in a quiet corner of a deserted church when I got back to the mainland, a can of beer in one
hand, a gun in the other. And I thought long and hard about if I could be bothered carrying on.’

Barnes goes back to reading the book, but his hands are trembling now – not much, but a little – and I’m sure he’s not concentrating on the words.

‘Why did you choose to continue?’ I ask, remembering my own decision to end it all as I trudged away from County Hall, certain that everything was lost.

‘Believe it or not, I thought about
you
,’ Barnes replies. ‘It wasn’t intentional. I was sitting there, remembering Stuart, mourning all that I’d lost, figuring there was no reason for me to go on fighting and struggling now that he was gone.

‘Then I found myself thinking about brave Becky Smith, how she didn’t give in when she was a prisoner, how she fought the good fight, how she’d have surely been killed if
I hadn’t interceded and led the Angels to her rescue. I knew she was the sort who was going to get into trouble again, and I had a niggling feeling she might need my help further down the
line.

‘I spent a long time drinking that beer,’ Barnes says, his voice a bare croak. ‘Trying to decide if helping you mattered to me that much. In the end it was something
I’d said to Stuart when I first left him on the island that swung it. He didn’t want to stay. He didn’t care that he was safe there. He cried and begged me to take him with me,
said he couldn’t stand it if I abandoned him and never returned.

‘I told him that if he truly loved me, he wasn’t to think that way. If I fell to the forces of darkness during my travels, I said the best way he could honour my memory was by living
his life to the full. I told him to look for a father figure on the island, find someone who could take my place. He said he could never do that. I told him that if he didn’t, it would mean he’d never
loved me as much as he claimed.’

Barnes is still holding the book, but he’s looking at the ceiling now. There are no tears in his eyes, but I think he’s probably as close to them as he has ever been, or is ever
likely to be.

‘You’re my replacement for Stuart,’ Barnes says hoarsely. ‘I lost my son, the only person on this dirt-ball of a planet that I loved, and I’ve replaced him with a
foster daughter, to do for him what I hope he would have done for me.

‘I lived because of you, B,’ he finishes softly. ‘If I can save you, I’ll keep the ghost of my son alive a while longer. When I pass from this world, I’ll take the
last loving memory of Stuart with me, and I want to put that off for as long as I can. Protecting you gives me the willpower to endure the pain and heartache, to limp on when it would be so much
easier to just stop.’

Barnes clears his throat and scowls. ‘Believe me if you want, or believe I’m full of crap if you prefer. I don’t give a damn. Just let me read my book in peace.’

And, having said that, he returns his gaze to the novel and acts as if I’m not there, leaving me free to choose.

‘My dad died in Battersea Power Station,’ I murmur after a while.

Barnes squints. ‘What was he doing there?’

‘He was in the Ku Klux Klan. One of their shining lights.’

The ex-soldier blinks. ‘I didn’t know you were of racist stock.’

‘Oh yeah. The very worst. I used to be that way inclined myself once, eager to please my daddy.’

‘And now?’ Barnes asks.

I smirk. ‘These days I figure, live and let live.’

Barnes laughs out loud, then smothers it with a palm, not wanting to attract the attention of any sharp-eared zombies who might be lurking nearby.

‘I’d like to have a father I could love and respect,’ I tell him when the fit of laughter passes.

‘B . . .’ he says, his voice crackling with deep emotion.

‘But since there’s no one like that around, I suppose you’ll do,’ I add.

He shoots me the finger. ‘You’re not what I expected from a daughter either,’ he chuckles.

‘What?’ I act shocked. ‘I’m not Daddy’s little princess?’

‘Daddy’s little monster more like,’ he smirks, then lays his book aside. ‘Does this mean you don’t think I’m angling to betray you?’

‘I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt,’ I mutter. ‘For now.’

‘I feel privileged,’ Barnes says with a straight face. ‘In that case what’s our next move? Since you didn’t kill Oystein when you had the chance, I’m guessing
you aren’t interested in revenge.’

‘Nah. What would killing him achieve? If he was just a nasty sod like Dan-Dan, I might go after him. But someone who devotes his life to bringing down an entire species is a nutter of a
different order. If I thought he still posed a threat, I’d have to act, but I’m pretty sure he can’t do any more harm.’

‘You’re not concerned that he’ll get hold of Mr Dowling’s vial of Schlesinger-10?’ Barnes asks.

‘No,’ I grunt, not telling him any more than that. I do trust him, but, even so, there’s no point being a silly bugger about it and sharing more than I need to.

‘So what next?’ he asks again.

‘Do you think you can fix me?’ I ask, pointing a finger at my shredded midriff.

Barnes leans over and studies the damage. Looks at the stumps of my shorn-off ribs, the places where Mr Dowling screwed in attachments which the babies later ripped away.

‘How do you talk without lungs?’ he asks.

‘Mr Dowling inserted a pump in my throat before he removed them,’ I explain.

Barnes unwraps some of the bandages that are holding me together and surveys the rest of the damage, the holes in my arms and legs, my lacerated cheeks. His face saddens as he stares.

‘Less of the pity,’ I huff. ‘I don’t need it.’

‘They really did a number on you,’ he notes.

‘Yeah, well, we can’t do anything about that. I took the abuse and I’m still taking it. No point moping. Focus on my stomach. That’ll be a major drawback if we
can’t patch it up.’

‘There’s not a lot I can do,’ Barnes says. ‘I’ll wrap some fresh bandages round you — proper bandages, not these useless strips of cloth.’

‘Hey,’ I scowl, ‘they were all I had.’

‘And I guess they did the job,’ he admits, ‘but they’re not the long-term solution. Tomorrow we’ll screw in bolts to give you the rough shape of a ribcage, then
cover them with a plastic sheet or a strip of leather. It needs to be something more durable than bandages, but easy to remove at the same time, because you’ll have to go on eating like you
did tonight, mashing up brains and smearing them in.’

‘Mr Dowling was able to build an artificial digestive system for me,’ I sniff.

‘Bully for him,’ Barnes retorts. ‘Go back to him if you were that impressed with his handiwork.’

‘What, and abandon my daddy?’ I grin. ‘OK. First we’ll sort out my stomach. Can you fetch what you need in the morning?’

‘Not a problem,’ Barnes says. ‘I can have you ready to go before midday.’

‘Great. I’ll need some new clothes too — my dress is a wreck. Once I’m good for the road, we’ll get the hell out of this place. I’m sick of London and the
lunatics who control it. I want to get as far away as I can from Dr Oystein, Mr Dowling and the rest.’

‘Do you have your sights set on anywhere in particular?’ Barnes asks.

‘New Kirkham,’ I reply instantly.

‘I know that place,’ Barnes nods. ‘Coley and I swung through there a few times. Decent people for the most part, but some bad eggs in among the mix.’

‘It’s changed since you last saw it. The racists made a play for power but failed. They were all hanged for mutiny. One of my friends helps run the town now. He’ll give us shelter. We can draw up a more concrete plan, then set off into the wide blue yonder.’

‘Sounds good to me.’ Barnes stretches and yawns. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to rid you of the rest of those old rags, wrap you up good and tight with clean
bandages, do a bit more reading, then turn in for the night. You can keep watch. I might as well make use of you now that you’re here.’

‘I’m not a guard dog,’ I growl.

‘Of course not,’ he says sweetly. ‘You’re far uglier and way more vicious than any common mongrel.’

‘That’s right,’ I huff, ‘laugh it up. We’ll see if you’re so clever when I bring you your slippers in the morning and
accidentally
scratch your
ankles when I’m helping you put them on.’

Barnes laughs and says, ‘That’s my girl.’

‘If only,’ I whisper to myself, remembering my real father and thinking what a pity it is that we don’t get to choose who our parents are. ‘If only.’

A few hours later, Barnes is snoring lightly. He fell asleep almost as soon as he turned in. He’d told me that would be the case. He also said he’s a light sleeper and would probably
wake up if there were unusual noises, but, even so, not to hesitate to disturb him if I thought there was a suggestion of trouble brewing.

Barnes sleeps in a sleeping bag on the bar, out of the way of any rats or insects. His guns rest close by, as well as a collection of knives. He didn’t take off his boots or clothes,
saying he liked to be able to hit the ground running. When I joked about his smell, he said it was no laughing matter. Zombies have an easier time sniffing out a clean human than a filthy one.

I tried reading to pass the time, but I wasn’t able to concentrate. I kept thinking about Dr Oystein, what he’s done to the world, why he hates the living so much, if there’s
even the slightest chance I might be wrong about him. Brooding about the past. Worrying about the future.

I want to go sit on the balcony, but I’d wake Barnes if I got up, even if I tried to tiptoe. He said not to worry, that he snaps awake several times most nights, but I don’t want to
be a disruptive guest. He came to my rescue today, when I was sure all was lost, so I want to repay him as best I can.

Am I foolish to hope that things might work out? Will Dr Oystein anticipate my return to New Kirkham and send Angels there ahead of me? Should we take a random route out of the city, avoiding
any places that either of us has ventured to before? And afterwards, if we escape, where do I want to wind up? An island free of zombies? If so, what would I do about getting hold of fresh brains?

Even if we could go somewhere by ourselves, where there was a ready supply of brains, surely Barnes would pine for human company. I’m limited in what I can give him. Conversation, yes, but
we can’t touch. No hugs or high fives. I can never give him a bunk-up if he needs it. No contact sports. I’d even have to be wary playing a game of cards, in case I got excited, reached
for a card at the same time as him and scratched him by accident.

Maybe I’ll let Barnes go his own way once he’s escorted me to safety. Perhaps I could settle in a town or city in another country, where I could raid the morgues for years to come,
lonely but safe. Leave Barnes to live with others of his kind. Pop by for a visit every so often, to let him see that I’m OK and cheer myself up.

I don’t contemplate suicide. That’s off the agenda. I only toyed with that idea when I thought I was alone in the world. Now that I have someone who cares about me, who might need my
help just as I need his, I’m giving no thought to my ultimate end. The grave can’t have me as long as I have the interests of a friend to consider.

I smile warmly in the dim light of the old pub, feeling like I’ve turned a corner, despite everything else that has happened.

And that’s when I hear a sniffing sound outside.

I’m too wise to the ways of the world to dismiss the noise. As soon as I hear it, I jerk bolt upright and hiss, ‘Barnes!’

He wakes instantly, sits up, grabs a gun and looks at me questioningly. I point to my ears, then at the front door.

Barnes slips out of the sleeping bag, slides off the bar counter and stares at the door. We stand where we are, listening. I can’t hear anything now, but I know the
sound was real.