Zom-B City (6 page)

TEN

The call finally comes late one evening. There’s going to be a mission to Central London in three days — to make it clear, the reporter says that today is Sunday and the rescue will take place sometime on Wednesday. She’s excited when she breaks the news. The other rescues in the capital have all been in the suburbs. This is the first time they’ve hit the centre. They think it might be the largest operation yet, so they’re going to be sending more helicopters and troops than normal. But she tells people not to worry, this is just the first mission of many, so if you can’t make it this time, stay low and wait for the next.

I head off first thing in the morning. It won’t take me three days to walk to the West End, but I want to allow myself plenty of time to overcome any unexpected obstacles along the way, explore the area, find a resting place, maybe meet up with some of the survivors and convince them of my good intentions so that they can act as middlemen between me and the soldiers.

I pause in the doorway of the flat and glance back one last time, nostalgic, remembering Mum and Dad, the bad times as well as the good. And, being honest, there were more bad days than good. Dad was always too free with his fists. Mum and I were constantly walking on eggshells, afraid we’d say the wrong thing and set him off.

But you know what? I’d take them all back in an instant if they were offered, even the days when he beat us and drew blood and kicked us like dogs. He was a nasty sod, there’s no denying that, but he was still my dad. I love him. I miss him. I can’t help myself.

‘I’ll come looking for you,’ I say aloud to the memories of the two people who mattered to me most. ‘If I survive, and you’re out there, I’ll try to find you, to let you know I made it through, to help you if I can.’

There’s no answer or sign that somewhere, somehow, they magically heard. Of course not. I’d have to be a right dozy cow to believe that they’re sitting up in a far-off compound, frowning at the ghostly echo of my voice, whispering with awe, ‘
B?
’

‘You’re getting soft, girl,’ I mutter, then slam the door shut and head on down the stairs, whistling dreadfully — I can’t carry a tune these days, not now that my mouth is drier than a camel’s arse.

I wind my way through the streets, heading west. I’ve never walked this stretch of London before. We always got a bus or the Tube if we were going up the West End, or a cab on occasions when Dad was feeling flush.

I replace my clothes and jacket as soon as I can, for full protection from the sun. I’m still wearing the Australian hat. That should last me years if I don’t lose it. Well,
would
last me years if I lived that long, but I’ve probably only got about a year and a half, max. Which means this might well prove to be a lifelong hat.

The streets are quiet. I spot zombies in the shade of shops and houses, or resting in abandoned cars or buses. They stare at me hungrily as I amble past. I always make sure I turn so that they can see the hole in my chest. If it wasn’t so bright, they’d probably clamber out to make sure I wasn’t trying to fool them, but they’re reluctant to brave the glare of the day. They haven’t thought of wearing sunglasses. They ain’t bright sparks like me.

I’m excited to be on the move, to have a goal, even if it’s one that could result in my execution. I never did much when I was alive, just hung out with my mates (most or all of them are probably dead now, but I try not to brood about that) or festered in my room. It wasn’t a fascinating life by any standards. But it beat the hell out of being held prisoner underground, and the monotony of the last few weeks. I was going stir-crazy in that flat, but I only realise how bad things were now that I’ve left. You know you’ve been seriously climbing the walls if the thought of heading off on a suicide mission makes you feel happy!

I lose my way a couple of times, but don’t bother checking the
A to Z
. It’s a nice day, I’m enjoying the stroll, no zombies or hunters are hassling me, so what’s the rush?

I come to a railway station. Lots of eerie-looking train carriages, windows smashed in many, bloodstains splashed across the metal and glass in more places than I can count. On one carriage I spot a large red z with an arrow underneath, pointing west. It looks like it was freshly sprayed — there’s even a smell of paint in the air, or is that my imagination?

I swing a right past the station and follow the road round until I can cut through to Victoria Park. Mum used to bring me for walks up here at the weekend when I was younger. Dad came with us sometimes, but he’d always work himself up into a mood, muttering about all the foreigners on the loose.

He wouldn’t mind it now. There’s not a soul to be seen, black, brown or any other colour. Lots of corpses and bones but that’s all. I’ve got the entire park to myself.

Well . . . not quite. As I pad past the tennis courts and come to a few small ponds, I spot three skinny dogs lapping water from a pool.

I perk up when I clock the dogs and hurry towards them, calling out, ‘Hey! Doggies! Here!’ I make clicking sounds with my tongue.

The dogs react instantly, but not in the way I’d like. Without even looking at me, they take off, yapping fearfully. I race after them, shouting for them to come back, but they’re faster than me and disappear from sight moments later. I come to a stop and swear, then kick the ground with anger.

A little later, walking through the park, I regret swearing. I can’t blame the dogs for running. These past months must have been hellish for any animal trapped here. If zombies eat an animal’s brain as readily as a human’s, they’ll have gone for every pet in the city. To survive, you’d have to learn to be sneaky, to only come out in the daytime, to avoid all contact with the two-legged creatures which were once so nice to you. I think even Dr Dolittle would have trouble getting animals to trust him these days.

I spend an hour or more in the park. My skin’s itching from the sun, even protected by my heavy layers of clothes, but I press on, determined not to let that spoil the day for me. A pity there’s nobody selling ice cream. I could murder a 99, even though I’d have to spit out almost every mouthful because I can’t digest solids any more.

I keep hoping the dogs will show again, that they’ll realise I mean them no harm, that I only crave their friendship, not their brains — as hungry as I get, I wouldn’t kill a dog, any more than I’d kill a living person. I want them to slink forward, give me a closer once-over, learn to trust me. But no such luck. They’ve gone into hiding and I doubt they’ll come here again any time soon.

Eventually I take a road leading west. There are dead zombies hanging from the street lamps, rotting in the sun. Each has been shot through the head. Many have been disembowelled or cut up with knives. Flies buzz around the stinking corpses. I pass them nervously, wondering if this was the work of hunters like Barnes and his posse.

I don’t like the way that the corpses have been strung up. As vicious as the living dead are, they’re not consciously evil, just slaves to their unnatural desires. I understand the need to kill the undead, but torturing and humiliating them serves no purpose. It’s not like other zombies are going to look at them and have a change of heart. Being a zombie isn’t a career choice. The reviveds don’t have any control over what they do.

I turn left, then right on to Bethnal Green Road. One of Mum’s best friends, Mary Byrne, lived around here. Her oldest son, Matt, was my age, and his brother Joe was just a bit younger. We used to play together when our mums hung out.

More zombies are strung up along the road ahead of me, but I’m not paying attention to them, trying to remember exactly where Mary lived. So it’s a real shock, as I’m walking along, when one of the corpses kicks out at my head and makes a choked noise.

‘Bloody hell!’ I yell, falling over and scrabbling away.

The zombie goes on kicking and mewling, and I realise I have nothing to fear. I get to my feet and study the writhing figure. It’s a man. He’s been stripped bare. His hands are tied behind his back and a noose around his neck connects to the lamp overhead. But the people who strung up the zombies left this one alive, either for sport or because they were scared off before they could finish the job.

The man’s flesh is a nasty red colour, where he’s been burnt by the sun. His eyes are sickly white orbs. He snarls angrily and kicks out furiously at the world. No telling how long he’s been up there, but by the state of his eyes, I’d say it’s been a good while.

I should press on but I can’t. This guy means nothing to me but I can’t leave him like this. I wouldn’t do this to anyone, even a savage killer, as he doubtless would become if given his freedom and a human target.

‘Hold on, sunshine,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll find a ladder and come free you.’

The zombie screeches hoarsely, limited by the rope around his throat.

‘Be patient,’ I snap. ‘I won’t be long. Just give me a few minutes to go search for . . .’

I come to a stunned halt. I was turning to look for a hardware store when I spotted something, just past the corner where I cut on to this stretch. I do a double take, but when I look again it’s still there.

An artist’s easel has been set in the middle of the road, straddling a white line. A medium-sized canvas rests on it. And just behind the easel stands a man, holding a painter’s palette, gawping at me as if I’d come from another planet.

‘Who the bloody hell are you?’ I roar, striding towards him.

The man yelps and drops the palette. He turns and runs. I give immediate chase. He’s faster than me, but I throw myself through the air, taking long jumps, and a few seconds later I overtake him and draw to a halt, blocking his way. The man screams and turns to run back the way he’s come.

‘Don’t try it!’ I shout. ‘I don’t need to breathe, so I can chase you all day and never drop my pace.’

The man shudders, glances around desperately for a place to hide or something to defend himself with. Finding nothing, he resigns himself, straightens and turns to face me. He brushes dried flecks of paint from the sleeves of his coat and tries a shaky smile.

‘My name is Timothy Jackson,’ he squeaks, as posh as you like.

‘What are you doing here?’ I snap.

‘Painting.’ He nods at the easel and beams proudly, forgetting for a moment that he should be trembling with fear. ‘I’m an artist.’

As I stare at him, lost for words, he mistakes my gaze for one of hunger and loses his confidence as quickly as he found it. With a gulp, his arms slump by his sides and he says in a low, miserable voice, ‘Please don’t eat me.’

ELEVEN

I circle the artist warily as he stands shivering and wincing. He’s not very old, maybe early thirties. Medium height, a bit on the thin side, with a long face and dark circles round his eyes. He’s wearing yellow trousers, a pink shirt and a tweed jacket. His clothes are dirty, ruined with paint, but look like they came from a top-notch shop. He has long, untidy brown hair, but is freshly shaven, not even a hint of stubble. He stinks of strong aftershave, like he bathes in the stuff.

I squint at the canvas on which he was working. It depicts the zombie hanging from the rope. The feet look too big, out of proportion to the rest of the body, but I suspect that’s deliberate.

‘Did you stick him up there?’ I growl.

Timothy laughs nervously. ‘Hardly. I found him here a few days ago and I’ve been coming back to paint him at different times of the day, to take advantage of the changing light.’

‘He’s suffering. Zombies can’t endure the sun. He’s burnt and going blind. You never thought about letting him down?’

Timothy blinks and scratches his head. ‘To be honest, no, I didn’t. It’s not that I derive any pleasure from his pain – I feel sorry for these poor creatures – but if I’d set him free, he would have come after me and either gouged out my brain or turned me into a monster like him.’

I have to acknowledge that he’s got a point.

‘I’ll let you off this time,’ I sniff.

‘If it’s not impudent of me,’ Timothy murmurs, eyes round and filled with curiosity, ‘what on earth
are
you? I thought you were one of the undead when I first saw you, but then you spoke.’

‘I’m a revitalised,’ I tell him. ‘A zombie who regained its thoughts.’

‘That’s possible?’ he gasps.

‘In some cases, yeah.’

‘Does that mean there’s a cure for the rest of them?’

I shrug. ‘I don’t think so.’

Although, now that I consider it, maybe it does. Perhaps a serum could be fashioned from my blood, one that could restore thought to all of the living dead. If I get rescued on Wednesday, I’ll suggest that to the soldiers. I don’t mind being a guinea pig, not if I can help bring peace to the world. Hell, maybe I’ll end up being hailed as a hero. B Smith — saviour of mankind!

‘Enough about me,’ I grunt. ‘What the hell is an artist doing in the middle of the road in a city overrun by zombies?’

‘Capturing the apocalypse for the sake of posterity,’ he beams. ‘I’ve been doing this every day since London fell. Well, not for the first couple of weeks – it was too dangerous to venture out – but I’ve not missed a day since.’