Zom-B City (13 page)

‘He’s out of his tiny mind if he thinks I’ll ever have anything to do with you lot,’ I jeer. ‘You’re freaks, every last damn one of you. I wouldn’t spit on you if you were on fire, even if I
could
spit.’

The clown tilts his head sideways and frowns.

‘You should kill her for saying a thing like that,’ Kinslow growls.

‘Mr Dowling decides who to kill and who to spare,’ Owl Man thunders, his smooth voice dropping several octaves in the space of a heartbeat, his eyes flaring. ‘Don’t ever forget that or speak out of turn again. He makes the calls, not you.’

‘Of course,’ Kinslow says quickly, fear mixed in with his apology. ‘I meant no disrespect. I was merely –’

‘Shut up if you want to live,’ Owl Man says lazily, then looks to the clown. ‘I told you she would not come with us. Do you want to crack her skull open or let her go?’

The clown stares at me for a few seconds. Then he makes a chuckling, wheezy sound, turns and sets off across the square, Kinslow hurrying to keep up with him.

Owl Man winks at me, all smiles again. ‘He said we’ll probably end up killing you, but not today. He’s in a good mood after the game with the baby. Go with his blessing, but bear this in mind — no matter where you go, no matter what you do, he knows you’re out there and he can find you any time he likes. You haven’t seen the last of Mr Dowling, Becky, not by a long shot.’

Owl Man peels away and follows the mutants and their master. I watch numbly as the clown gathers his posse and leads them from the square. Someone starts to sing an old ballad about murder and revenge, and by the time they pass from sight, they’ve all joined in, one big, happy party, heading off in search of fresh pickings, leaving me to fester in the square, surrounded by the wreckage of the helicopters and the cooling bodies of the dead.

TWENTY-FOUR

I remain in Trafalgar Square overnight, barely moving, staring at nothing, wishing somebody would come along and free me from this unholy hell of an existence. Zombies trail through the square over the course of the night, scraping dry the skulls of the corpses, ridding them of every last scrap of brain. Some come sniffing to make sure I’m not edible too. I ignore them and focus on the empty feeling inside, remembering the baby, the mutants, Owl Man, the clown, the bloodshed.

In the morning, as the sun rises and the carnage is revealed in all its gory glory once again, I push myself to my feet, pick up my trusty Australian hat which is lying nearby, dusty but undented, and turn my back on the grisly scene. I’m in a universe of pain, and limp badly as I shuffle away, but my wounds aren’t fatal. I’ll survive, worse luck.

In a numb daze, I start down Whitehall. It’s not an especially long road, but it takes me ages to get to the end, hobbling and limping, dripping occasional drops of thick, gooey blood from wounds I don’t even begin to explore.

I pass Downing Street, once home to the Prime Minister. I know he didn’t make it out of London alive — the news programmes mentioned his loss a few times. He hasn’t been missed. His cabinet neither. The army runs the country these days.

I wonder if the PM is still inside Number Ten, a zombie like so many of his voters, resting until dark. I could check – the gate is open and unguarded – and probably would any other time. But I’m too weary to care about such trivialities. This country has fallen. Babies are being turned into zombies and feeding on their mothers. Who cares about stuffy politicians now?

Big Ben comes into view. I pause and stare glumly at the clock tower. The hands have stopped at just before a quarter to five. It doesn’t chime any more. I doubt it ever will again. A dead clock at the heart of a dead city.

As I edge past the Houses of Parliament, I spot a large red z sprayed near the base of Big Ben, an arrow underneath pointing towards Westminster Bridge. I had planned to turn left and crawl along the riverbank, heading back east to more familiar territory, to see out my time on home turf. But the arrow intrigues me. I’ve seen others like it during my march west. I think they might be the work of Mr Dowling – he sketched a blood-red z on my cheek when he visited me in my cell in the underground bunker – but I’m not sure. Maybe they were sprayed by humans, survivors hoping to guide others to their hideout. If so, they might be more interested in my offer of assistance than the soldiers were.

Silly old B! Still keen to help the living. Will I never learn?

I move forward, wincing, dragging my left leg, half-blind and itching like crazy. I should have found new clothes and glasses before I came out on to an exposed bridge, but I wasn’t thinking clearly. No matter. I push on regardless. I won’t be in the sun for long. There will be plenty of shadowy corners for me to rest in on the south side of the river.

I’m surprised, as I advance, to note that the London Eye is still revolving. At first I think it’s a trick of the light, so I stop and watch it for a minute. But no, the capsules are moving slowly, just as they did in the old days when every tourist in London made a beeline for its most popular attraction. Today, though, the capsules are deserted. The Eye might be open for business, but it doesn’t have any takers.

As I drag myself off Westminster Bridge, I think about the London Dungeon, a place I visited several times when I was alive. I passed its original home earlier in my journey, and now here I am at its subsequent location in County Hall. Maybe that’s the place for me. I’d fit in perfectly among all the waxwork monsters.

‘No,’ I whisper. ‘You’re too grisly. You’d give the rest of the freaks a bad name.’

Shuffling on, I come to the turning for Belvedere Road, which separates the buildings of County Hall, and spot another red z with an arrow beneath, pointing up the road.

I stare wearily at the arrow. I need to feed. It’s been a long time since I last ate. I can feel my stomach tightening, my senses beginning to loosen. If I don’t tuck into some brains soon, I’ll regress and become a mindless revived. If I’m going to follow these damn arrows, I need to make sure I’m in good shape to deal with living humans if I run into any.

St Thomas’s Hospital is just behind me, so I turn slowly and make for it. I assumed a hospital would offer rich pickings, but as I work my way through the wards, I find that isn’t the case. Others have been here before me and scraped the remains of the corpses dry.

But I’ve got a bit more up top than your average zombie. As far as I know, any hospital this size has a morgue. And I’m guessing they were normally situated on one of the lower floors, so the staff didn’t have to wheel corpses through the rest of the hospital, spooking the life out of everybody.

I find the morgue after a short search but it’s locked. It takes me far longer to track down keys for the door, but eventually I find a set in a nurses’ cabinet and let myself in. It’s brighter and cleaner than I anticipated, no stench of death at all.

The morgue is refrigerated and the electricity is still working. I don’t find as many corpses as I thought I might, but four are lying on slabs, ready and waiting, and there are probably a few more tucked away out of sight. If I don’t stray from this area in the near future, I can come back and search again. But right now I have more than I need. Time to dine.

I mutter a quick apology over the body of a woman in her early twenties, then chip through her skull with my finger bones and prise out bits of her brain. I eat mechanically, forcing down the food. When I’ve eaten my fill, I let myself out, lock the door behind me, and throw up in the corridor. I place the keys back where I found them, then return to Belvedere Road, moving more easily than before, but still very far from normal. If my bones and flesh don’t heal – and I’ve no reason to think they will – I’m going to be hobbling like this until the end. No more long jumping or sprinting for me.

I limp along, head low, feeling sorry for myself. As I come to one of the entrances into the main building of County Hall, I notice a small red z sprayed on a wall, the arrow beneath it pointing inwards. I stare at the arrow for a long time, then shrug, mount the steps and push open the unlocked door at the top. If this is a trap, so be it. I’m too tired to worry.

The shade of the building is a welcome relief after being out in the sun. To my surprise there are no zombies here. I thought a massive, dark area like this would be bursting with the undead, but I seem to be the only soul making use of the place.

I wind my way through a warren of corridors and rooms with unbelievably high ceilings. This is like a palace. I never knew there was so much to it. I’ve been to the aquarium and games arcade at the front of the building in the past, and the London Dungeon, of course, but had no idea that all this existed further back.

Many of the doors are shut and won’t open. If I wanted to, I might be able to force them apart or find keys if I searched, but I’m content to simply wander where I can, stepping through every door that opens to me, ignoring the rest.

After a while, I come to a room overlooking the river. I edge up next to the panels of cracked glass and gaze out at one of the best views in town. To my left lie Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Bridge. To my right is a bridge for trains, and just beyond that, Waterloo Bridge. Huge, ornate buildings line the bank on the far side of the river. The London Eye is directly ahead of me, imposing and graceful, still turning smoothly, silently, like some wind-up toy standing tall and proud among the ruins of the city.

I take off my hat and let it drop to the floor. Rubbing the back of my neck, I lean my head against the glass and make a sighing sound. I feel more alone than ever in this immense building, like I’m in a tomb.

Then, as I’m glumly considering where I should turn next, from just behind me, out of the shadows of what was an empty room when I entered, somebody coughs politely and says, ‘Good morning, Miss Smith. We’ve been expecting you.’

To be continued . . .