Zom-B Angels (3 page)

‘Some of the heads are delivered to us from people who die of natural causes in human compounds,’ he says. ‘We have contacts among the living who view us as allies, and they
give us what they can. But most come from fresh corpses that we found in morgues or dug up not long after the first zombie attacks. I knew brains would be a pressing issue, so I made them my
number-one priority. For a couple of weeks, grave-robbing was practically our full-time occupation.’

He tells me how he’s trying to create a synthetic substitute that will give us the nutrients we need, so that we don’t have to rely on reaping brains from dead humans in future, but
I’m barely listening.

More bedrooms, another training centre – again, I only spot teenagers – and the impressive council chamber. Dr Oystein starts waffling on about the history of County Hall, but I
can’t focus. I keep thinking about the centuries stretching out ahead of me, the incredibly long life that has been dropped on me without any warning.

Halfway down another of the building’s long corridors, I stop and shake my head. ‘This is crazy,’ I shout. ‘You’re telling me I’m gonna live at least twenty
times longer than any human?’

‘Yes,’ Dr Oystein says calmly.

‘How the hell can anyone last that long?’

He shrugs. ‘A living person could not. But we are dead. We do not age as we used to. If we take care of our bodies, and sustain ourselves by eating brains, we can defy the laws of living
flesh.’

‘Then what’s to say we won’t live forever?’ I challenge him. ‘Where did you pull two or three thousand years from? If we don’t age –’

‘We
do
age,’ he cuts in smoothly. ‘I said that we do not age as we used to, but we definitely age, only at a much slower rate. Our external appearance will not change
much, except for scarring, wrinkling and discolouring. Our internal organs are to all intents and purposes irrelevant, so even if they crumble away, it won’t really matter.

‘Only our brains are susceptible to the ravages of time. From what my tests have revealed, they are slowly deteriorating. If they continue to fail at the rate I have noted in the subjects
that I have been able to assess, we should manage to hold ourselves together for two or three thousand years. But it could be less, it could be more. Only time will tell.’

I shake my head again, still struggling to come to terms with the revelation.

‘Try not to think about it too much,’ Dr Oystein says kindly. ‘I know it is a terrifying prospect — a long life seems enviable until one is presented with the reality of
it and has to think of all those days and nights to come, how hard it will be to fill them, to keep oneself amused for thousands of years. And it is even harder since we do not sleep and thus have
more time to deal with than the living.

‘But as with everything in life, you will learn to cope. I’m not saying it will be easy or that you won’t have moments of doubt, but I suggest you turn a blind eye to your
longevity for now. You can brood about it later.’ He sighs. ‘There will be plenty of time for brooding.’

‘Why tell me about it at all if that’s the case?’ I snap.

Dr Oystein shrugs. ‘It is important that you know. It is one of the first things that I tell my Angels. Our approach to life – or our semblance of it – differs greatly
depending on how much time we have to play with.’

‘Come again?’ I frown.

‘If you think you have only a year to live, you might behave recklessly, risking life and limb, figuring you have little to lose. Most people treat their bodies with respect when they
realise that they may need them for longer.’

‘I suppose,’ I grumble.

Dr Oystein smiles. ‘You will see the brighter side of your circumstances once you recover from the shock. But if it still troubles you, at least you have the comfort of knowing that you
will not have to go through this alone. We are all in the same boat. We will support one another over the long decades to come.’

‘All right,’ I mutter and we start walking again. My mind’s still whirling, but I try to put thoughts of my long future on hold and focus on the tour again. It’s hard
– I have a sick feeling in my stomach, like I get if I go too long without eating brains – but the doctor’s right. I can obsess about this later. If I try to deal with it now,
I’ll go mad thinking about it. And madness is the last thing I want to face in my state. I mean, who fancies spending a couple of thousand years as a slack-jawed, drooling nutter!

The tour draws to its conclusion shortly after our conversation in the corridor. We pass through one of the large courtyards of County Hall – I remember seeing them from
up high when I went on the Eye in the past – and into a room which has been converted into a lab, lots of test tubes and vials, some odd-looking machines beeping away quietly in various
places, pickled brains and other internal organs that have been set up for dissection and examination.

‘This is not my main place of work,’ Dr Oystein says. ‘I maintain another laboratory elsewhere in the city. I had a string of similar establishments in different countries
around the world, but I do not know what has become of them since the downfall.’

He looks at me seriously. ‘I told you that we keep no secrets from one another here, and that is the truth, with one key exception. The other laboratory is where I conduct the majority of
my experiments and tests, and where I keep the records of all that I have discovered over the years.’

‘You mean you haven’t just started researching zombies since the attacks?’

‘No. I am over a hundred years old and have been studying the undead since the mid-1940s.’ As I gawp at him, he continues as if what he’s told me is no big deal. ‘I have
a team of scientists who have been working with me for many years. They are based at my main research centre. I lost a lot of good men and women when the city fell, but enough survived to assist me
in my efforts going forward.

‘I dare not reveal the location of that laboratory to anyone. It is not an issue of trust but of fear. There are dark forces stacked against us. You are aware of the one who calls himself
Mr Dowling?’

‘You know about the clown?’ I gasp.

Dr Oystein nods sombrely. ‘I will tell you more about him later. For now, know only that he is our enemy, the most dangerous foe we will ever face. He yearns for the complete destruction
of mankind. I guard the secrets of deadly formulas that Mr Dowling could use to wipe out the living. If I told you where my laboratory was, and if he captured you and forced the information from
you . . .’

I smile shakily. ‘That’s all right, doc. I know what a bastard he is. You don’t need to feel bad about not sharing.’

‘Yet I do,’ he mutters glumly, then grimaces. ‘Well, as limited as this laboratory is, it does feature one of my more refreshing inventions, a device which is literally going
to blow your mind. Come and see.’

Dr Oystein quickens his pace and leads me to four tall, glass-fronted cylinders near the rear of the lab. Each is about three metres high and one metre in diameter. One is filled with a dark
grey liquid that looks like thick, gloopy soup.

‘I have a complicated technical name for these,’ Dr Oystein says. ‘But one of my American Angels nicknamed them Groove Tubes some years ago and it stuck.’

‘What are they for?’ I ask.

‘Recovery and recuperation.’ The doctor pokes one of the deep gashes on my left arm and I wince. ‘As you will have noticed, our bodies do not generate new cells to repair cuts
and other wounds. Our only natural defence mechanism is the green moss which sprouts on open gashes. The moss prevents significant blood loss and holds strands of shredded flesh together, but it is
not a curative aid. Broken bones don’t mend. Cuts never properly close. Pain, once inflicted, must be endured indefinitely.’

‘Tell me about it,’ I huff, having been hunched over and limping since Trafalgar Square.

‘We can endure the pain when we have to,’ Dr Oystein continues, ‘but it is a barrier. It is hard to focus when you are wracked with agony. Like you, I have suffered much in my
time. I realised long ago that I needed to find some way to combat the pain, to ensure it did not distract me from my work. I conducted many experiments and eventually came up with the Groove Tube.
In the fledgling world of zombie chemistry, this probably ranks as the most significant invention to date. If the undead awarded Nobel prizes . . .’

He smiles at the absurdity of the suggestion, then clears his throat. ‘Although the technology is complicated, the results are easy to explain. The liquid inside a Groove Tube is a
specially formulated solution which uses modified brain cells as its core ingredient. If you are undead and you immerse yourself, the solution stimulates some of the healing functions of your
body.

‘Your lesser wounds will heal inside the Tube. The cuts on your elbows and head will scab over, as they would have when you were alive. It won’t have much of a visible effect on the
hole in your chest, but it will patch up the worst damage and you will not bleed so freely.

‘There are other benefits. Broken bones will mesh. Your eyesight will improve and your eyes will sting less. You will not need to use drops so often. You might get a few of your taste buds
back, but that sensation won’t last for long. You will come out feeling energetic and the pain will be far less than it currently is.’

‘Sounds like a miracle cure,’ I mutter, suspicious, as I always am, of anything that sounds too good to be true.

‘A miracle, perhaps,’ he says, ‘but not a full-blown cure. The effects are not permanent. If a bone has broken, the gel holding the two parts together will start to fail after
a few years. All wounds will reopen in time. But you can immerse yourself again when that happens and be healed afresh. It is too soon to know if we can use the Tubes indefinitely, but so far I
have not noticed any limit on the number of times that they can work their wonders on a given body.’

‘Fair enough, doc. You’ve sold me.’ I start to strip.

‘One moment,’ he stops me. ‘I want you to be fully aware of what you are letting yourself in for.’

‘I knew it,’ I scowl. ‘What’s the catch?’

‘We cannot sleep,’ Dr Oystein says. ‘Wakefulness is a curse of the undead and I have been unable to find a cure for it. But when we enter a Groove Tube, we
hallucinate.’

‘Go on,’ I growl.

‘It is like getting high,’ the doctor murmurs, staring longingly at the grey gloop inside the cylinder. ‘As the solution fills your lungs – you cannot drown, so it will
not harm you, although we’ll have to pump you dry when we pull you out – you will start to experience a sense of deep, overwhelming bliss. You will have visions and your brain will tune
out the world beyond the Tube, as you enter a dreamlike state.’

‘Sounds good to me,’ I beam.

‘It
is
good,’ he nods. ‘But there are dangers which you should be aware of. One is the addictive nature of the experience. You will not want to leave. I could let my
Angels soak in the Tubes regularly, but I do not. They are reserved for the treatment of serious wounds. The main reason I insist on that is to help them avoid becoming addicted. You may wish to
re-enter the Tube at the end of the process, but I will not permit it. They are for medicinal – not recreational – purposes only.’

‘Understood. And the real kicker?’

Dr Oystein nods. ‘You are sharper than most of my Angels, B. Yes, I have held back the real kicker, as you call it, until the end.’ He pauses. ‘It will take two or three weeks
for your wounds to fully heal. During that time you will be unaware of all that is happening around you. It would be a simple thing for me or anyone else to attack you while you are in that
suspended state. You will have no way of defending yourself. If someone wanted to cut your head open and pulp your brain, it would be child’s play. Or we could just leave you inside the Tube
and never pull you out — if we did not haul you clear, you would bob up and down inside the solution for the rest of your existence, never fully waking. Once you succumb to the allure of the
Groove Tube, you will be at our mercy.’

I stare at the doctor long and hard. ‘That’s a pretty big ask, doc.’

‘Yes,’ he says.

‘Can I wait to make my decision?’

‘Of course.’

‘Will anything bad happen to me if I choose not to enter the Tube?’ I watch him warily for his answer, ready to bolt for freedom if I get the feeling that he’s spinning me a
lie.