ZOM-B Baby (6 page)

I limp along like a sodden rat, making my way past Waterloo before turning on to the Cut, once home to theatres, pubs and restaurants, now home only to the legions of the damned.

I don’t look up much, just trudge along, head low, spirits even lower, cursing myself for being such a fool. Am I really going to turn my back on Dr Oystein, the Angels, Mr Burke and maybe the only sanctuary in the city that would ever accept someone like me? Can I really be that dumb?

Looks like it.

I make slow progress, hampered by my injuries and lack of direction. With nowhere to aim for, there’s no need to rush. I’m itching like mad from the daylight but that doesn’t deter me. I figure it’s no more than a loser like me deserves. I don’t even stop to pick up a pair of sunglasses or a hat.

I only pause when I reach Borough High Street. Borough Market is just up the road. That was one of London’s most famous food markets. Mum dragged me round it once, to check it out. She decided it wasn’t any better than our local markets, and a lot more expensive, so she never came back.

I’m sure the food stocks have long since rotted, and even if they haven’t, food is of no interest to me these days. But most of Borough Market was a dark, dingy place, built beneath railway viaducts. I bet the area is packed with zombies.

Ever since I revitalised, I’ve looked for a home among the conscious. Maybe that’s where I’ve gone wrong. I might fit in better with the spaced-out walking dead.

I turn left and shuffle along. As I guessed, the old
market is thronged with zombies, resting up to avoid the irritating light of the day world. I nudge in among them, drawing sharp, hungry stares. I rip a hole in the front of my T-shirt to expose the gaping cavity where my heart used to be. When they realise I’m one of their own, they leave me be.

All of the shops are occupied but I find a vacant spot in a street stall. There are a few rips in its canvas roof, through which old rainwater drips, but it’s dry and shaded enough for me. There are even some sacks nearby which I shake out and fashion into a rough bed.

When I’m as comfortable as I can get, I take off my clothes and toss them away. No point leaving them out to dry — I can easily pick up replacements later. It doesn’t matter to me that I’m lying here naked. The zombies aren’t watching and there’s nobody else around. Hell, maybe I won’t bother with clothes again. I don’t really need them in my current state, except to protect me from the sun when I go out in the daytime. But if I stick to the night world as my new comrades do …

Dusk falls and the zombies stir. I head out with them to explore the city, interested to see where they go, how much ground they cover. I hunted with reviveds when I first left the shelter of the underground complex, but I never spent a huge amount of time in their company. I’d follow a pack until we found brains or, if they didn’t seem to know what they were doing, I abandoned them and searched for another group.

Some of the zombies peel off on their own, but most stay in packs, usually no more than seven or eight per cluster. Hard to tell if they’re grouped randomly or if these are old friends or family members, united in death as they were in life. They don’t take much notice of one another – no hugging or fond looks – unless they communicate in ways that I’m not able to understand.

There’s a woman in a wheelchair in one of the packs. Curious to see how she fares, I pick that one and stick with it for the whole night, trailing them round the streets of Borough and the surrounding area.

The zombie in the wheelchair has no problem keeping up with the others. Like the skateboarding teenagers, she remembers on some deep, subconscious level how she operated when alive.

They don’t seem to be moving in any specific direction though, taking corners without pausing to think, circling back on themselves without realising it, covering the same ground again. Their heads are constantly twitching as they stare into the shadows, sniff the air and listen for shuffling sounds which might signify life.

Rats are all over the place, foraging for food. They clearly don’t consider the zombies much of a threat. And from what I see, they’re right not to. One member of the pack catches a couple of rodents which were rooting around inside the carcass of a dog. He bites the head off each and chews them with relish. But those are the only successes of the night. The other zombies spend a lot of time stumbling after rats – the disabled woman launches herself from her wheelchair when she senses a kill, then sullenly drags herself back into it
afterwards – but the fanged little beasts are too swift for them.

I know from chatting with the Angels that some zombies hole up in a particular place and stay there. Jakob did that when he was a revived, made his base in the crypt of St Martin-in-the-Fields. But these guys don’t have that inclination, and rather than head back to the market when dawn breaks, they nudge into a house just off the New Kent Road and make a nest for the day.

The disabled woman struggles to mount the step into the house. She moans softly but the others don’t help her. Finally she throws herself forward, leaving the chair to rest outside until she re-emerges when it’s night again.

I stand by the wheelchair, scratching my head and scowling. I’d hoped to make a connection with the zombies of Borough Market, slot in with them, find a place to call my own. As deranged as they are, many still function as they did in the past, driven by instinct and habit to behave as they did when they were alive. I thought the locals of the market might
grow used to me, nod at me when they saw me, invite me to hunt and eat with them.

Doesn’t look like that’s the case, not if this pack is anything to go by. They hunt together for some unknown reason, but they have no real sense of kinship. It’s every zombie for him or herself.

I could go back and try again, follow another group when night falls and see if they prove any brighter or more welcoming. But what’s the point? I’m not the same as these poor, lost souls, and there’s nothing to be gained by pretending that I am. Why the hell would they bother about an outsider like me when they don’t even truly care about their own?

‘You’re a mug, B,’ I mutter. ‘And getting muggier every day.’

With a sigh, I turn my back on the house of zombies and head off on my own again. If a home exists for me in this city, it isn’t among the reviveds. Not unless I choose to go without brains for a week or two. I’d revert if I didn’t eat, lose my mind, become one of them.

It doesn’t sound like much of an option, but I consider it seriously as I hobble away. After all, what’s worse, having company as a brain-dead savage, or remaining in control of your senses but feeling lonely as hell all the time?

I can’t tolerate the daylight without clothes. My skin itches like mad and my eyes feel as if they’re being burnt from the inside out. So I make for the shopping centre in the Elephant and Castle. It’s hardly a shopping mecca, but I find jeans, a T-shirt, a hoodie, a baseball cap and a jacket with a high collar. I pull on gloves and a few pairs of socks, finish up by tracking down some sunglasses.

I pick up a bottle of eye drops in a chemist’s, and squirt in some of the contents while there. My eyes would dry out without regular treatment. I wouldn’t go blind, but my vision would worsen.

I’m also going to need heavy-duty files for my fast-growing teeth and bones, since I left all mine at County Hall, but I can sort those out later. It will be a few days before my teeth start to bother me. Hell, maybe I’ll just let the buggers grow. I mean, if I don’t have anyone to chat with, what difference does it make?

Kitted out, and having ripped a hole in the front of the hoodie and T-shirt to reveal my chest cavity, I head back up the New Kent Road. I’m still in a lot of pain from the fall off the Eye, but I can cope with it as long as I don’t rush. I’ve dealt with worse in the not too distant past.

I come to a roundabout and swing left on to Tower Bridge Road. I take my time, checking out the windows of old shops, acting like a tourist. I pause sadly when I come to Manze’s, an old-style pie and mash shop, where they soak the pies and mashed potatoes in a sickly green sauce known as liquor. I wasn’t into that sort of grub, but Dad loved it and he often talked about this place. He worked here for a while when he was a teenager. The stories he told were
almost enough to turn me vegetarian. But as much as he’d spin wild tales about what went into the pies and liquor, he always swore this was the best pie and mash shop in London.

They used to do jellied eels too, and that reminds me of a guy I haven’t thought about since finding my way to County Hall. Pursing my lips, I nod and carry on, a girl with a purpose, having made up my mind to go in pursuit of an actual target rather than just wander aimlessly.

As I’m coming to the junction of Tower Bridge Road and Tooley Street, I draw to a surprised halt and do a double take. Then I remove my sunglasses, just to be absolutely sure.

There’s a sheepdog in the middle of the road.

The dog is lying down, clear of all the buildings, keeping a careful watch on the area around it, though it must be hard with all that hair over its eyes. It has a beautiful white chest, running to grey further back. Its hair is encrusted with dirt and old bloodstains. It pants softly and its tail swishes gently behind it.

I watch the dog for several minutes without moving. Finally, as if hypnotised, I start forward again, taking slow, cautious steps. The dog spots me and growls, getting to its feet immediately.

‘It’s all right,’ I murmur. ‘I’m not gonna hurt you. You’re gorgeous. How have you survived this long? Are you lonely like me? I’m sure you are.’

The dog scrapes the road with its claws and growls again, but doesn’t bark. It must have figured out that barking attracts unwanted attention. Zombies don’t like the daylight, but they’ll come out if tempted. There aren’t many large animals left in this city — most of them were long ago hunted down and torn apart by brain-hungry reviveds. This dog knows that it has to be silent if it wants to survive.

I stop a safe distance from the dog and smile at it. I want it to trust me and come to me. I picture the pair of us teaming up, keeping each other company, me looking out for the dog and protecting it from zombies, while in return it helps me find fresh brains. This could be the start of a beautiful friendship.

‘You and me aren’t that different,’ I tell the dog. ‘Survivors in a place where we aren’t wanted. Alone, wary, weary. You should have headed out to the countryside. You’d be safer there. The pickings might be richer here but the dangers are much greater. Why haven’t you left?’

The dog stares at me with an indecipherable expression. I don’t know if it sees me as a threat or a possible mistress. Hell, maybe it sees me as lunch! I doubt a dog like this could be much of a threat, but maybe it’s tougher than it looks. It might have survived by preying on zombies, ripping their throats open, using the element of surprise to attack and bring them down.

I spread my arms and chuckle at the thought of being taken out by a sheepdog. ‘I’m all yours if you want me. I’ve no idea what zombies taste like, but anything must be better than rat.’

The dog shakes its head. I know it’s just coincidence, that it can’t understand what I’m saying, but I laugh with delight anyway.

‘Stay here,’ I tell it. ‘I’ll fetch a bone for you to chew and a ball to play with.’

I start to turn, to go and search the shops of Tower Bridge Road. As soon as I move, the dog takes off, tearing down the street to my right, headed east.

‘Wait!’ I yell after it. ‘Don’t go. I won’t hurt you. Come back. Please …’

But the dog isn’t listening. I don’t blame it. I wouldn’t trust a zombie either, even one who can speak. It won’t have lasted this long by taking chances. A creature in that position will have learnt to treat every possible threat as a very real challenge to its existence. Better to run and live than gamble and die.

I stay where I am for a while, reliving my encounter with the dog, smiling at the memory, hoping it will come back to sniff me out if I don’t move. But in the end I have to accept that the dog has gone. I stare one last time at the spot where it was lying, then push on over the bridge, alone but not quite as lonely as I felt a few minutes before.