Zom-B Angels (8 page)

‘This is Ciara,’ Ashtat says as she approaches our table. ‘Ciara, this is Becky Smith, but she likes to be called B.’

‘Pleasure to meet you, B,’ Ciara says cheerfully. She looks more like a model than any dinner lady I ever met, with high cheekbones, carefully maintained hair, and clothes
you’d only find in exclusive boutiques. Even the apron, white cap and green plastic gloves look more suited to a catwalk than a kitchen. But there’s one thing about her that’s far
more extraordinary than her glamorous appearance.

She has a heartbeat.

‘You’re alive!’ I gasp, the beat of her heart like a drum to my sensitive ears.

‘Just about,’ Ciara grins. ‘But don’t go thinking that means you can eat my brain. There should be more than enough for you there.’

She hands me a bowl filled with a familiar grey, gloopy substance. It’s what the zom heads were fed in the underground complex, human brains mixed up in a semi-appetising way.

‘For afters,’ Ciara says, slamming a bucket down in the middle of the table. She winks at me. ‘Don’t be offended if I don’t stick around, but I can’t stand
all the vomiting. Come and have a chat with me later if you want. I used to work in Bow long ago, which – if I’m any judge of an accent – isn’t too far from your neck of the
woods. I’m sure we’ll find plenty to talk about.’

Ciara sticks out a hand and pretends to ruffle my hair, only she doesn’t quite touch me. Can’t, since she’s human and I’m not. I’d probably contaminate her if one
of my hairs pierced her glove and stabbed into her flesh. I’m pretty sure that every cell of my body is toxic.

‘I didn’t expect to find living people here,’ I remark as Ciara leaves.

‘There aren’t many,’ Carl says, ‘but we get a few passing through, and Ciara is a permanent fixture.’

‘She was here when we first moved in,’ Ashtat explains. ‘She worked in one of the hotel restaurants. Dr Oystein calls her the queen of the dinner ladies. She’s so
stylish, isn’t she? I asked her once why she chose to follow such a career. She said because she liked it, and we should all do what we like in life.’

‘Isn’t she afraid of being turned into one of us?’ I ask.

‘That cannot happen,’ Ashtat says. ‘If she was infected, she would become a revived. But no, she is not afraid. She feels safe around us. She knows we would not deliberately
turn her. Of course it could happen accidentally if she fell against one of us and got scratched, but she is happy to take that risk. She says there are no guarantees of safety anywhere in this
world now.’

‘But if she is ever turned, God help the bugger who does it to her,’ Shane growls. ‘I don’t care if it’s an accident — if anyone hurts Ciara, I’ll come
after them with everything I have.’

‘You’re my hero,’ Carl simpers. ‘Now shut up and eat.’

Shane scowls but digs in as ordered.

I tuck into the gruel, not bothering with the spoon which Ciara supplied, just tipping it straight into my mouth from the bowl. I used to think it was disgusting, but having had to scoop brains
out of skulls to survive since leaving the underground complex, I’m less fussy now.

Jakob is first to finish – he doesn’t eat all of his gruel – and he reaches for the bucket and turns aside, sticking a couple of fingers down his throat. The rest of us follow
his example when we’re ready and the room comes alive with the sound of a few dozen zombies throwing up.

The children of the night — what sweet music we make!

Nobody says much for a while after we’ve finished eating and puking. We all look a bit sheepish. It’s not easy doing this in public, even for those who’ve
been living together as Angels for months. It feels like having a dump in front of your friends. I’ve done a lot of crazy things over the years, but I drew the line at that! Yet here we are,
all thirty plus of us, looking like we’ve been caught with our pants down around our ankles.

Ashtat pulls something out of a pocket, closes her hands over it and starts to pray silently. I roll my eyes at the boys and make a gagging motion, but they don’t laugh. When Ashtat
finishes and unclasps her hands, I see that the object is a crucifix.

‘What are you doing with that?’ I ask.

‘Praying.’

‘With a cross? Don’t you guys use . . . I don’t know . . . but not a cross. Those are for us lot.’

‘
Us lot?
’ Ashtat repeats icily.

‘Christians.’

‘What makes you think I’m not a Christian?’

I snort. ‘You’re an Arab. There aren’t any Christians in the Middle East.’

‘Actually there are,’ Ashtat says tightly. ‘Quite a few, for your information.’

‘I’m not talking about people who go there on pilgrimage,’ I sniff.

‘Nor am I,’ she says. ‘I’m talking about Arab Christians.’

‘Pull the other one,’ I laugh.

Ashtat raises an eyebrow. ‘You don’t think you can be both an Arab and a Christian?’

‘Of course not. You’re one or the other.’

‘Really?’ she jeers. ‘So you think that all Arabs are Muslims?’

‘Yeah,’ I mutter, although I’m getting the sinking feeling that I’m on a hiding to nothing. ‘You all worship Allah.’

‘And who is Allah?’ she presses.

‘Your god.’

‘No,’ she barks. ‘
Our
god. God and Allah are one and the same. Assuming you believe in God.’

‘Well, I’m not religious, but if I did believe, it would be in God, not Allah.’

‘As I just told you,’ she says, ‘Allah
is
God. Our religions have the same roots. Muslims believe in the Old Testament and they revere Christ, Mary and all the saints
that Christians do.’

I scratch my head and stare at her, lost for words.

‘You don’t know anything about Islam, do you?’ she says.

‘Not really, no,’ I admit grudgingly.

Ashtat starts to laugh, then grimaces. ‘I’m sorry. I should not mock you for being ignorant. In my experience, most of your people knew nothing about mine. We were just potential
terrorists in your eyes.’

I want to protest but I can’t, because it’s the truth.

‘I’m not going to give you a history lesson,’ Ashtat goes on. ‘If you are truly interested, you can look up the facts yourself. But Muslims and Christians – Jews
too – all started out in the same place and believe in the same God. We branched along the way, but at our core we are the same.

‘I’m Muslim,’ she continues, ‘but one of my grandmothers was Christian. She converted when she came to this country and married my grandfather, but she told her children
and grandchildren about her old beliefs and encouraged us to respect Christianity. The Virgin Mary was her favourite and I often say a prayer to her, thinking of my grandmother, especially in these
troubled times.’

Ashtat stops and waits for me to respond. I can only gawp at her. It’s like I’ve been told that the Earth actually is flat or the moon truly is made of cheese.

‘Why did your people hate us if that’s the case?’ Shane asks. This is obviously news to him too.

‘Why did
your
people hate
us
?’ Ashtat retorts.

‘Because of September the tenth and all the other crap,’ Shane says.

‘You mean September the eleventh,’ Carl sighs, rolling his eyes.

‘What about the Crusades?’ Ashtat counters. ‘Western Christians tried to wipe out my people, to steal our land and treasures. Later, in the twentieth century, you divided up
our nations as it suited you, to govern us as you saw fit. You . . .’ She shakes her head. ‘We could argue about this forever, but it would not do any good. I don’t hate anyone or
blame anyone or see myself as being part of any army except the army of the Angels. The old grudges seem ridiculous now that the world has changed so much.’

‘You’re the one who started the argument,’ I pout.

‘I was not arguing,’ she contradicts me. ‘I was simply pointing out a matter of fact, in response to your assertion that Arabs could not also be Christians.’

‘All right. I stand corrected. Happy now?’

‘Yes,’ Ashtat says, putting away her crucifix.

‘I didn’t mean any harm,’ I add softly.

She smiles. ‘I know. Forget about it.’

‘My dad . . .’ I consider telling them how I was raised, about my racist father, what happened with Tyler, how I’m trying to be different. But before I can decide how to start,
a Chinese guy enters the dining room and claps loudly.

All conversation comes to an immediate halt. Everyone rises and bows. The newcomer waits a moment, then bows smoothly in return. When he straightens, he looks around, spots me and comes
across.

He’s a bit taller than me, although not a lot older, maybe five or six years my senior, dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt. No shoes. Bones jut out of his toes and fingers. They’ve
been carefully trimmed into dagger-like tips.

He stops in front of me. I’m the only person still sitting. I glance at the others but they don’t look at me. Their gazes are fixed dead ahead.

‘I am Master Zhang,’ he says softly. ‘In future you will stand and bow when you see me.’

‘Why?’ I snap.

His right hand flickers and before I can react, his fingers are tightening round my throat. I slap at his arm and try to pull free, but he holds firm.

‘Because I will kill you if you do not,’ he says without changing tone.

‘Don’t . . . need . . . breath,’ I growl. ‘You . . . can’t . . . choke . . . me.’

‘No. But I can rip your head from your neck and dig into your brain. I could do it now. I would not even need to alter my grip. Do you doubt that?’

I stare into his dark brown eyes – one of them is badly bloodshot – and shake my head stiffly.

‘Good,’ he says, releasing me. ‘That is a start. Now you will stand, bow and say my name.’

I want to tell him to get stuffed, but I’ve a feeling my head would be sent rolling across the floor before I got to the end of the insult. I don’t think this guy plays games, that
he’s someone you can push to a certain point. You show him respect or he rips your apart, simple as that.

Pushing my chair back, I stand, bow and mutter as politely as I can, ‘Master Zhang.’

‘Good,’ he says again, then turns to face Carl. ‘You will bring her to me when you are finished here. I will test her.’

‘Yes, Master Zhang,’ Carl says, bowing again.

Zhang leaves without saying anything else. Once he’s gone, the Angels sit and conversation resumes as if we were never interrupted.

I rub my throat and glare at the others. ‘You could have warned me,’ I snarl.

Carl waves away my accusation. ‘We all have to go through that. Master Zhang likes to make his own introductions.’

‘Do you really think he would have ripped my head off?’ I ask.

‘If you were dumb enough to assume he was joking, yes,’ Carl says. ‘But so far nobody’s made that mistake. Even Shane knew better than to give Master Zhang any
grief.’

‘I’d like to see him tear someone’s head off though,’ Shane says. He shoots me a quick look. ‘I was hoping
you
might talk back to him, just to see what
he’d do.’

‘Good to know you have my back if things ever get ugly,’ I snarl. For a few seconds I consider walking out the door and leaving — in some ways this place is just as bad as the
underground complex where I was held prisoner. But where would I go? Who could I turn to? Grumbling darkly, I sit down like the rest of them. ‘So that guy’s your mentor?’ I ask,
recalling what Awnya said when she mentioned him.

‘Yes,’ Ashtat says. ‘He teaches us how to fight and fend for ourselves, so that we are ready for the missions on which we are sent.’

‘Just him?’

‘Yes. He is the only tutor we need.’

‘And the test he mentioned?’

Ashtat snickers. ‘Every Angel trains with Master Zhang, but some are deemed more worthy of his attention than others. He will take your measure when you spar with him. If he is impressed,
you will train to join the likes of us on life-or-death missions.’

‘If you disappoint him,’ Carl says, ‘you’ll end up rooting through shops for supplies with the twins.’

‘Or mixing up brains with Ciara to put in the gruel,’ Shane giggles.

‘It’s time to find out if you’re a lion or a lamb,’ Ashtat says.

‘I’m no bloody lamb,’ I growl.

She purses her lips. ‘No, I do not think that you are.’ Then her expression softens and she adds hauntingly, ‘Although if you are cleared to come on missions with us, you might
end up wishing that you were.’

When everyone’s had their fill, they stack up the bowls and leave them on the tables, then file out of the dining room. Carl tells me to accompany him to the gym for my
test with Master Zhang. I expect the others to come with us, but they head off to do their own thing.

‘This won’t be the gladiatorial showdown of the year,’ Carl smirks, noting my disappointment.

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s not going to be some amazing duel, with you pushing Master Zhang all the way. The test for newbies is pretty boring. That’s why no one’s interested.’

‘Maybe I’ll surprise you,’ I grunt.

‘No,’ he says. ‘You won’t.’

Carl takes me by the swimming pool on our way. A couple of Angels are doing laps, moving faster than any Olympic swimmer, like a pair of sharks following a trail of blood.

‘Can you swim?’ Carl asks.

‘Yeah.’

‘You’re free to train here whenever you want,’ he says. ‘But make sure you plug up your nostrils and ears — water will lodge if you don’t. And keep your mouth
firmly shut. Liquids slip down our throats easily enough, but they’re a real pain to get rid of. Trust me, unless you like wearing nappies, you don’t want to go sloshing around with a
few litres of water inside you.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

The gym is fairly standard, cross-trainers, rowing machines, weights and so on. Several Angels are working out, some under the gaze of Master Zhang, others by themselves.

Master Zhang ignores me for a few minutes, studying a girl as she performs a series of gymnastic routines in front of a dummy that must have been brought here from a shop. Each spin or twirl
ends with a flick of a hand or foot to the dummy’s head or torso. She’s already chipped away at a lot of it, and keeps on tearing in, cracking it, knocking chunks loose, ignoring the
cuts and nicks she’s picking up.