Zom-B Underground (12 page)

I lower my hands and stare at the sharp bones sticking out of my fingertips. It would be difficult, but I’m sure I could crack open my skull and scoop out enough of my brain to put myself out of my misery. It would be a gruesome way to die, but wouldn’t it be better than shuffling around as a lost, tormented soul for the rest of my wretched years?

As I’m staring at my fingers, trying to work up the courage to end it all, the door to my room slides open. The sounds outside amplify immediately and I wince. I glance up from my hands, expecting Reilly, or maybe Dr. Cerveris and Josh. But whoever it is, he’s standing in the corridor, not showing his face. I can see his shadow, but that’s all.

“Don’t be shy,” I growl. “Come on in and have a good look.”

The man giggles. It’s a strange, jangly sound. It makes me grit my teeth. I start to sit up angrily. Then the man steps inside and I sink back with confusion and disgust.

It’s a clown, but no clown that you’d ever see in a circus, not unless it was a circus in hell.

He’s dressed in a pinstripe suit, but with colorful patches stitched into it in lots of different places. There are plenty of bloodstains too.

A severed face hangs from either shoulder. The faces have been skinned from the bone. I think one came from a woman and the other from a man, but it’s hard to be sure.

Lengths of gut are wound around both his arms, long strands of intestines, glistening and dripping. Along his legs several ears have been pinned to the fabric of his trousers.

He’s wearing a pair of oversized red shoes, a small skull sticking out of the end of each. They could be the skulls of some breed of monkey, but I don’t think they are. I think the skulls came from human babies.

The clown’s hair has been sourced from a variety of heads. There are all sorts of locks, every type of color, shade and length, stuck to his skull. No… not stuck. As he comes closer and giggles again, he bends slightly and I see that the clumps of hair are stapled to his scalp. There are dried bloodstains around many of them, and fresh blood flows from a few.

The clown has a painted white face, but that’s the only traditional touch. The flesh around his eyes has been carved away and filled in with what looks like soot. A pair of
v
-shaped channels run from beneath either eye to just above his lips, which have been
painted a dark blue color. The channels have been gouged out of his cheeks and the exposed bone has been dyed bright pink. Instead of the usual red ball over his nose, he’s somehow attached a human eye to it. Little red stars have been dotted over it.

I do nothing as the surreal clown advances. I’m frozen in place. I’m praying that this is an illusion, a product of my fevered brain. But he doesn’t look like a dream figure. By all rights he shouldn’t belong to this world, but he certainly seems at home in it.

The clown hops from foot to foot, performing a strange little shuffle, still giggling, drawing closer. Now I spot a button on his chest, round and colorful, the sort a child might paint. Daubed on the button, in very ragged handwriting, is what I assume is his name.

Mr. Dowling.

He reaches the foot of my bed and beams at me, lips closed, eyes wide, looking crazier and more menacing than anything I’ve ever seen. His eyes continually twitch from one side of their sockets to the other. His skin is wriggling, as if insects are burrowing beneath the flesh, close to the surface.

I want to kick out at the nightmarish clown, or slide past him and race from the cell. But I can’t move. It’s like I’m locked down tight. I can’t even whine.

The clown reaches out and slowly strokes my right cheek. His fingers are long and thin. Much of the flesh has been sliced away from them. I glimpse bones through a mishmash of exposed veins
and arteries. He’s not a zombie–he has normal-looking nails, and I can feel his pulse through the touch of his fingers–so I can’t understand how he tolerates these open, seeping wounds.

Withdrawing his hand, the clown–
Mr. Dowling
–leans over until his face is in front of mine. His eyes steady for a moment and he looks straight at me. Only it’s more like he’s looking through me. I feel as if he’s reading my thoughts, stripping my mind bare, unraveling all of my secrets.

The clown’s smile spreads. His eyes start dancing again. He opens his mouth.

Spiders fall from his blue lips, a rain of arachnids, small and scuttly. Hundreds of legs scrape my face as they pour upon me, over my eyes, into my mouth, up my nose.

With a scream of shock and terror, I snap back to life, hurl myself from the bed and roll across the floor, swiping spiders from my face, mashing them to pieces with the heels of my hands, spitting them out, picking them from my eyes, screaming over and over. I never thought of myself as an arachnophobe. Then again, I’ve never been covered with spiders until tonight.

I shake my head and wipe my hands across my face and scalp, brushing the last of the spiders away. Some scurry across the floor, seeking the shelter of the shadows under the bed. I poke the bone of my little finger into my right ear, then my left, as carefully as I can, not wanting to rupture the drums within. Then I explore slowly with my fingers.

They’re gone.

With a shudder, I stand, squash a few more of the spiders underfoot and turn to face the otherworldly clown.

He isn’t there. If he was real in the first place–and I wouldn’t think that he was if not for the spiders–he slipped out while I wasn’t looking.

And he left the door open.

Still shaking, I glance around my cell to make sure he’s not lurking, waiting to pounce on me from behind when I think I’m safe. Once I’m convinced that he really has gone, I call out shakily, “Hello?”

There’s no answer, but the noises outside are louder than ever, the screams especially. I no longer think that they’re the product of my skewed senses.

Steeling myself against every sort of imaginable horror, I edge closer to the open doorway. I keep thinking that it will slam shut, but it doesn’t, and seconds later I ease out of my cell, into the corridor and the middle of a blood-red storm.

Soldiers are battling with zombies at the end of the corridor. A small group of humans, no more than four or five, against a dozen or more of the living dead. The soldiers have guns and are firing openly on their enemies, but unless the bullets strike their heads and rip the zombies’ brains apart, they don’t do any real damage. And the zombies aren’t giving the soldiers the time or space to squeeze in many clear headshots.

My first instinct is to try to help the soldiers. It doesn’t matter that they’ve been keeping me captive, or that they’ve been deliberately starving me for the last few days. I feel compelled to help the living.

The zombies have the soldiers surrounded. I start towards them, shouting,
trying to distract the undead killers. I’m not sure how I plan to help the humans, but at least I can fight off the zombies without fear of being infected. Maybe I can buy the soldiers time to retreat to safety.

But the reviveds put an early end to my half-formed plans. They press in close, dig in teeth and fingers, and it’s all over before I hit the scene. They leave the humans before they fully turn, somehow knowing they’ve done enough.

The soldiers writhe on the ground and scream for help or mercy, but there’s nothing anyone can do for them now. One puts a gun to his head and ends the nightmare before it can claim him. The others suffer on.

The zombies bunch together in front of me and sniff the air, pressing forward dangerously. I remember what happened during the experiment. The reviveds don’t react to zom heads unless we attack them. It’s hard, but I force myself to stand calmly as they circle me, fingers flexing, nostrils dilated.

They decide I’m one of them, lose interest in me and press on, moving with purpose. Soon I’m left with the soldiers, who are all vomiting and transforming. I can hear bones forcing their way out through fingers and toes, teeth thickening and lengthening. Turning my back on the doomed, screaming men, I make for zom HQ, hoping to find answers or safety there.

It’s the first time I’ve been able to patrol the corridors by myself. Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t get very far, but virtually all of the doors are open. The security system has either crashed or been
hacked. There’s nothing to hold me back. But that means there’s nothing to hold back the zombies either. Or that grisly clown. Mr. Dowling could be lurking in any of the rooms that I pass or around any of the corners that I come to.

But there’s no sign of the clown. I scope lots of zombies, and a few soldiers and scientists running for their lives, but that’s all.

I’m close to zom HQ when a Klaxon starts to wail. The high-pitched sound is torturous and I collapse to my knees, choking with pain. Clasping my hands over my ears doesn’t help. I feel like my head is about to split. I see zombies falling like ninepins, moaning and convulsing. It looks like the revolt has been quashed. Some bright spark has come to the rescue. It’s probably for the best. As much as I hate the crew here for what they’ve done to me, I don’t want to see them all slaughtered. I’ll just wait, ride out the pain as best I can, and put up no resistance when they come to take me back to my…

The Klaxon dies away as swiftly as it blared into life. The zombies rise and shake their heads. They snarl accusingly at the ceiling, then press on in search of fresh victims, back in business, as hungry as ever.

I stagger on until I find zom HQ, but the door here is closed and doesn’t open when I push. I pound on it and roar out names. “Rage! Reilly! Tiberius!” But nothing happens.

I’m not sure what to do now. I back away from the door, staring at it sullenly. An undead woman with one arm staggers past. She stops and turns, eyes widening with delight, lips splitting into an
eager smile. Then a bullet rips through her forehead and tears her brain to shreds. She collapses with a soft wheezing noise.

I glance over my shoulder and spot Reilly and Dr. Cerveris jogging towards me. Gokhan, Peder and Cathy are with them. Reilly looks scared but in control. Dr. Cerveris just looks furious.

“How did you get out of your cell?” the doctor snaps as they draw level.

“The clown opened my door.”

Everyone gapes at me.

“What bloody clown?” Reilly grunts.

“Mr. Dowling.” I look around. “Nobody else saw him?”

“She’s started to hallucinate,” Dr. Cerveris huffs. “That’s common among revitalizeds in the final stages of consciousness. We should leave her. She could regress at any time.”

“They’re all in bad shape,” Reilly says, pointing to the others, who are shaking and dizzy-looking. “If we’re going to try to save the rest, we might as well save B too.”

“Very well,” Dr. Cerveris mutters. “But if I give the command, blow her brains out and don’t stop to think about it.”

The doctor steps forward, presses his fingers to the panel on the zom HQ door, then puts an eye up to the retinal scanner. The door slides open and he looks inside. “Nobody home,” he says, closing the door again.

“Why don’t we hole up in there?” Peder asks. “The zombies couldn’t get in if we shut the door behind us.”

“Of course they could,” Dr. Cerveris barks. “Members of staff have been turned. We know from past tests that certain operational memories remain among reviveds. Some of the soldiers and medics might recall what they need to do to open locked doors, and if they had clearance when they were alive, they still have it now.”

“So what are we going to do?” I growl. “Run around like slasher-movie fodder until the zombies get us?”

“First we fetch the others,” Reilly says as we pad down the corridor, following the animated Dr. Cerveris. “Then we lock ourselves into a room that requires a digital code. The reviveds won’t be able to recall a string of numbers—their memories aren’t
that
strong.”

“How come you’re bothering with us?” Cathy asks as we run. “Did Josh tell you to help us?”

“I haven’t seen him,” Reilly says. “I don’t know if he’s still alive. But it’s our job to protect you. We’re under attack. An outside crew has disabled our system and freed the reviveds, and their forces are still active. I thought we were safe when the Klaxon kicked in, but obviously they got to that too. I don’t think they’re interested in the reviveds–they can find more of them anywhere–so they must be after you guys.”