Zom-B Angels (2 page)

‘Stop it,’ I grunt. ‘You’ll make me blush.’

Dr Oystein sniffs. ‘Not unless you are even more remarkable than the rest of us. Without a heart, how would your body pump blood to your pale, pretty cheeks?’

Dr Oystein makes a gesture, inviting me to lower my T-shirt. As I do so, he steps across to the window where I was standing when he first addressed me. County Hall boasts one of the best views
in the city. He looks out at the river, the London Eye, the Houses of Parliament and all the other deserted buildings.

‘Such devastation,’ he mumbles. ‘You must have encountered horrors beyond your worst nightmares on your way to us. Am I correct?’

I think about all of the corpses and zombies I’ve seen . . . Mr Dowling and the people he tormented and killed in Trafalgar Square . . . his army of mutants and his bizarre sidekick, Owl
Man . . . the hunters who almost killed me . . . Sister Clare of the Order of the Shnax, the way she transformed when I bit her . . .

‘You’re not bloody wrong,’ I wheeze.

‘The world teeters on the brink,’ Dr Oystein continues. ‘It has been dealt a savage blow and I am sure that most of those who survived believe that there is no way back,
regardless of what the puppets of the military might say in their radio broadcasts.’

‘You’ve heard those too?’

‘Oh yes. I tune in whenever I am in need of bittersweet amusement.’ He looks back at me. ‘There are many fools in this world, and it is no crime to be one of them. But to try
and carry on as normal when all around you has descended into chaos . . . to try to convince others that you can restore order by operating as you did before . . . That goes beyond mere
foolishness. That is madness and it will prove the true downfall of this world if we leave these people to their sad, petty, all too human devices.

‘There
is
hope for civilisation as we once knew it. But if the living are to rise again, they will need our help, since only the conscious undead stand any sort of chance against
the brain-hungry legions of the damned.’

Dr Oystein beckons me forward. I shuffle towards him slowly, not just because of the pain, but because I’ve almost been mesmerised by his words. He speaks like a hypnotist, slow, assured,
serious.

When I join him at the window, Dr Oystein points to the London Eye, turning as smoothly and steadily as it did when thousands of tourists flocked there every day.

‘I consider that a symbol of all that has been lost but which might one day be restored,’ the doctor says. ‘We keep it going, day and night, a beacon of living hope in this
city of the dead. But no ordinary human could operate the Eye — they would be sniffed out and besieged by zombies. We, on the other hand, can. The dead will not bother us, since we are of no
interest to them. That lack of interest is our strength and humanity’s only hope of once again taking control of this planet.

‘You are not the first revitalised to find your way here,’ Dr Oystein goes on. ‘There are others – weary, battered warriors – who have crawled through the streets
of bloodshed and nightmares in search of sanctuary and hope, following the signs as you did.’

‘Are you talking about zom heads?’ I ask.

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘But we do not use that term here. If you choose to stay with us and work for the forces of justice and mercy, you will come to think of yourself as we do, not
as a zom head but an
Angel
.’

I snort. ‘With wings and a harp? Pull the other one!’

‘No wings,’ Dr Oystein smiles. ‘No harp either. But an Angel nonetheless.’ He moves away from the window, towards the door. ‘I have much to show you, Becky. You do
not have to accompany me – you are free to leave any time that you wish, and always will be – but, if you are willing, I will take you on a tour and reveal some of the many secrets of
the newly redefined County Hall.’

I stare at the open doorway. It’s shadowy in the corridor outside. There could be soldiers waiting to jump me and stick me in a cell again.

‘Why should I trust you?’ I ask.

Dr Oystein shrugs. ‘I could tell you to listen to your heart, but . . .’

The grisly joke eases my fears. Besides, there’s no way I could turn back now. He’s got me curious and, like a cat, I have to follow my nose and hope it doesn’t lead me
astray.

‘All right, doc,’ I grunt, limping over to him and grinning, as if I haven’t a care in the world. ‘You can be my guide. Just don’t expect a tip at the
end.’

‘I will ask for no tip,’ he says softly. ‘But I
will
ask for your soul.’ He smiles warmly as I stiffen. ‘There’s no need to be afraid. When the time
comes, I believe you will give it to me gladly.’

And with that cryptic remark, he leads me out of the room of light and into the vast, dark warren beyond.

‘This is an amazing building,’ Dr Oystein says as we wander through a series of long corridors, popping into massive, ornately decorated rooms along the way.
‘Four thousand people worked here at its zenith. To think that it is now home to no more than a few dozen . . .’ He makes a sighing sound.

‘I came here a few times when I was younger,’ I tell him. ‘I went on the Eye, visited the aquarium and the London Dungeon, hung out in the arcade, ate at some of the
restaurants. My dad brought us up one New Year’s Eve for the fireworks. We queued for ages to get a drink from a shop nearby. Worth it though — it was a cool show.’

Dr Oystein pushes open a door to reveal a room with a handful of beds. They haven’t been made up and I get the sense that nobody is using them.

‘I had no idea how many revitaliseds would find their way to us,’ he says. ‘I hoped for many, feared for few, but we prepared for an influx to be on the safe side. There are
many rooms like this, waiting for teenagers like you who will in all likelihood never come.’

I frown. ‘Why just teenagers? Don’t you accept adults too?’

‘We would if any came, but adult revitaliseds are rare.’

‘Why?’ I ask.

‘I will explain later,’ he promises.

He closes the door and pushes on. After a while the style of the corridors and rooms changes and I realise we’ve crossed into one of the hotels which were part of County Hall before the
zombie uprising.

‘Oh, for the simple comforts of life,’ Dr Oystein says drily as we check out a suite that’s bigger than my family’s old flat in the East End. ‘Did you ever stay in
a hotel like this, Becky?’

‘No. And it’s B,’ I tell him. ‘That’s what everybody calls me.’

‘Is that what you prefer?’

‘Yeah.’

He nods. ‘As you wish. We all have the right to choose our own name.’

‘How about you?’ I counter. ‘Dr Oystein’s a mouthful. What’s your first name?’

He smiles. ‘Oystein
is
my first name. It has been so long since I used my surname that I have almost forgotten what it is.’

We double back on ourselves, but take a different route. This place is a maze. My head is spinning as I try to chart all the twists and turns, in case I need to make a quick getaway. The doctor
seems like a nice old bloke, but I’m taking nothing for granted.

‘How many rooms are there?’ I ask.

‘Far too many to count,’ Dr Oystein says. ‘We use very few of them. It’s a pity we cannot make more use of the space, but we do not have the numbers at the moment. Maybe
one day we can bring it fully back to life, but for the time being we must rattle around in it.’

‘Why don’t you move somewhere smaller?’

Dr Oystein coughs as if embarrassed. ‘To be honest, I always had a fondness for County Hall. When I was casting around for a base, this was my first choice. The Angels seem to share my
love for the building. I hope that it will come to feel like home for you over time, as it has for us.’

‘So who lives here with you?’ I ask. ‘You haven’t told me about the set-up yet, how you came to be here, who your Angels are, how you plan to save the world.’

‘Those questions will all be answered,’ he assures me. ‘We do not keep secrets from one another. We are open in all that we do. But there is no need to rush. As you adjust and
settle in, we will reveal more of our work and background to you, until you know as much about us as I do.’

I don’t like being told to wait, but this is his gig. Besides, I’m exhausted and my brain hurts, so I don’t think I could take in much more anyway. There’s one thing that
does disturb me though, and I want to bring it up before pushing on any further.

‘How come there are no regular zombies here? Every other big, dark building that I’ve seen has been packed with them.’

‘I had already recruited a small team of Angels before I established a permanent base,’ he says. ‘We drove out the reviveds before we moved in.’

‘That must have been messy.’

‘It was actually the easiest thing in the world,’ he replies. ‘With their sharp sense of hearing, reviveds – like revitaliseds – are vulnerable to high-pitched
noises. So we simply installed a few speakers and played a string of high notes through them, which proved unbearable for those who had taken up residence. They moved out without any protest, then
we slid in after them and shored up the entrances.’

‘I got in without any hassle,’ I remind him.

‘We saw you coming on our security cameras,’ he says. ‘We switched off the speakers – we repositioned them around the building once we had moved in, and normally play the
noises on a constant loop, to keep stray reviveds at bay – and made sure a door was open when you arrived.’

We come to a huge room and I catch my first glimpse of what I assume are some of Dr Oystein’s Angels. There’s a small group of them at the centre of the room, in a boxing ring,
sparring. They’re my sort of age, no more than a year or two older or younger than me.

‘They spend most of their days training,’ Dr Oystein says.

‘For what?’

‘War.’

I swivel to look at him, but he doesn’t return my gaze.

‘The years ahead will be hard,’ he says quietly. ‘We will be tested severely, and I am sure at times we will be found wanting. We face many battles, some of which we are
certain to lose. But if we prepare as best we can, and have faith in ourselves and the justness of our cause, we will triumph in the end.’

I snort. ‘I hate to burst your bubble, doc, but if those Angels are like me, you’d better tell them to get their arses in gear. In another year or two we’ll be pushing up
daisies. You can’t win a war if all your troops are rotting in the grave.’

Dr Oystein frowns. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Our limited lifespan. We’ve only got a year and a half, two years max. Then our senses will dissolve, our brains will melt and we’ll be dead meat. If you’ve got a war
you want to win, you’d better crack on and –’

‘You were told many things when you were a prisoner,’ Dr Oystein interrupts. ‘Some were true. Some, you must surely know, were not. Your captors wanted to bend you to their
will. They told you lies to dampen your spirit, to break it, to make you theirs.’

I stare at him, hardly daring to believe what he’s telling me. ‘You mean it was bullshit about me only having a year or two to live?’

‘Of the highest grade,’ he smiles.

‘I’m not going to die soon?’ I cry.

‘You are already dead,’ he says.

‘You know what I mean,’ I groan. ‘My brain’s not going to pop and leave me truly dead?’

‘Far from it.’

I clench my fingers tight and give the air a victory punch. ‘Bloody
YES
, mate! You’ve made my day, doc. I was ready to accept an early end, but as crap as my excuse for a
life is, I’d rather this than no life at all.’

‘Most of us share your view,’ he chuckles, then grows serious. ‘But they did not tell you a total lie. We do not age the same way that humans do. Our lifespan, for want of a
better term, is not what an average human might expect.’

‘So it was half true,’ I growl. ‘Those are the best sort of lies, I guess. Go on then, doc, hit me with the bad news. I can take it. How long do I have? Twenty years? Ten?
Five?’

‘We cannot be absolutely certain,’ he says. ‘I have run many tests and made a series of predictions. But we have no long-term data to analyse, and will not have for many
decades to come. There are all sorts of genetic kinks of which I might be ignorant.’

‘Your guess is better than mine,’ I smile. ‘I won’t blame you if you’re off by a few years.’

‘Very well. I won’t tease you with a dramatic buildup. As I said, this is a rough estimate, but based on the results of my tests to date, I think we probably have a life expectancy
of between two and three thousand years.

‘And no,’ he adds before I can say anything, ‘I’m not joking.’ He leans in close, his eyes wide as I stare at him, stunned and numb. ‘So, B Smith, what do you
think of this
crap life
now?’

I’m in shock for ages. To go from thinking you have only months to live, to being told you might be hanging around for a couple of millennia . . . it’s a
cataclysmic leap and my mind whirls as we continue the tour.

We visit a kitchen where a good-looking, stylishly dressed woman with a big smile is scraping brains from inside severed human heads and dumping them in a mixing bowl. Dr Oystein introduces us,
but I forget the woman’s name even before we leave the room.