Zom-B City, Page 2

  The other zombies come out as I do, free to move around without irritation now that the sun has set. They don’t shuffle like movie zombies – they walk almost as freely as when they were alive – but you couldn’t mistake them for the living. Their eyes are glassed over, bones stick out of their fingers and toes, their teeth are too big for their mouths, they sniff the air like dogs.

  The fat guy I saw earlier gets a whiff of me and moves in closer, head twitching as he sniffs and listens. I let him come as close as he likes, curious to see what he’ll do, if he can tell that I’m different to him.

  Something must register inside his chaotic mess of a brain, telling him I’m not entirely the same, because he circles me warily, studying me with his cold, dead eyes.

  ‘Take it easy, boss,’ I grunt, pulling up my T-shirt to reveal the hole in my chest. ‘I’m one of you, honest I am.’

  The zombie growls when he hears me talking, then frowns when he spots the hole where my heart once rested. He peers into it for ages, as if he thinks it might be a trick. Then he turns away and goes looking for dinner elsewhere.

  ‘We accept you, gooble-gobble . . .’ I murmur, remembering something Tiberius used to say. Then I press on, leaving my temporary shelter behind, to find out if London truly has become a city of the dead.

  FOUR

  The streets are mostly deserted and the only people I glimpse are zombies. They seem to be drifting aimlessly, sniffing the air, looking for living humans to feed on. Many groan or whine, scratching at their stomachs or heads, suffering hunger pangs. Some have accidentally clawed through to their guts or poked an eye out. They’re pitiful beasts in this sorry state. They’d be better off properly dead, no doubt about it.

  Lots of zombies stop me as I draw close. They can tell I’m not exactly the same as them, maybe by my scent or the way I move. In almost every case, their face lights up with excitement, then creases with doubt, then returns to blankness once they realise I’m dead like they are.

  The reviveds become a nuisance after a while. If I try to push on without stopping to be examined, they get angry and snap at me. I’m pretty sure I could take any one of them in a fight – it shouldn’t be too difficult to outwit a brain-dead zombie – but I don’t want to spend the whole night scrapping. It’s easier to stand still, let them give me the once-over, then move on when they lose interest.

  To clarify my situation, I rip a hole in my T-shirt to expose the left half of my chest. That speeds things up a bit, but some still stop me to make absolutely sure I’m not one of the living. With all the interruptions, I make little headway. It’s been about a couple of hours since I left the car, but I haven’t gone far.

  I spot a newsagent’s and let myself in. It’s dusty. Shelves have been knocked down, broken bottles litter the floor, the glass in a drinks cabinet has been shattered. There are a few newspapers on the counter, all dated the day of the zombie attacks, the world’s last normal day. The cash register is open, notes lying undisturbed inside it. I guess money doesn’t matter much any more.

  The electricity is off but I can see fairly clearly. My eyes work well in the dark, better than they do in strong light.

  I find a large A to Z and take it outside. I look for a street sign, then do a quick check in the book. I’m in the East End. I don’t know this area well, but I’m not far from more familiar territory. It’s probably pointless, but with nowhere else to head for, I figure I might as well go home. I doubt I’ll find anyone there, but at least I’ll be in more comforting surroundings.

  I replace the A to Z with a smaller version and stick it in the back of my jeans. Then I set off in a northwest direction, picking my way through the streets, stopping whenever I’m challenged by one of the roaming dead.

  I endure the stop-start process for another hour before I get sick of it. It’ll take forever if I keep going like this. There has to be a better way and I think I know what it is. I could try a motorbike or car, of course, but I never learnt to drive, and anyway, the roads are cluttered with crashed vehicles.

  I find a street packed with shops and go on a scouting mission. First I slip into a chemist’s and hunt for eye drops. My eyes don’t produce tears now, so I need to keep moistening them or they’ll dry out and my vision will worsen. Once I’ve doused them, I load a bag with several bottles and look around, wondering if I need anything else. I think about bandaging over the hole in my chest, but it’s not a medical necessity – apart from the green moss, I haven’t seen any signs of infection – and besides, the open hole makes it easier for the walking dead to identify me as one of their own.

  I move on and spot a hardware store. I spend a bit longer in this shop, testing a variety of tools, looking for weapons in case I have to fight at any point. The zombies haven’t bothered me so far, but I can’t rely on them leaving me alone forever. I know from the tests underground that they’ll attack revitaliseds if they feel threatened. I don’t plan on antagonising anyone, but sometimes things can just kick off. Better to be safe than sorry.

  I settle on a hammer, a couple of screwdrivers and a chisel. Light, easy to carry and use, effective. I spend a long time among the drills, playing around with them, wincing at the shriek they make – my sense of hearing is much better than it was when I was alive – but loving their sheer ferocity. It would be cool to become a drill-packing zombie, but the bulky machines aren’t practical, so in the end, reluctantly, I leave them behind.

  A file, on the other hand, is vital, and I spend even longer testing out the goods in that section. My teeth are constantly growing and need to be filed back every day or two. Otherwise they’ll fill my mouth and I won’t be able to speak. When I find a file that does the job, I give all of my teeth a thorough going-over, then stick it in my bag, along with replacements, and mosey on.

  Next up, a large department store. Zombies are patrolling the aisles, checking behind clothes racks, looking for any juicy humans they might have missed. They keep mistaking mannequins for living people. They jump on them, growling and howling, then realise their mistake and trudge away sullenly. I get a good laugh out of that, but lose interest after the seventh or eighth time and crack on.

  I browse the racks, looking for clean jeans, a new T-shirt and a long-sleeved, heavy jumper. I tear a hole through the jumper and T-shirt to show the cavity in my chest, then pick up gloves and a nice leather jacket, one of the most expensive in the store. I dress in the middle of the shop, not bothering with the changing rooms. The zombies don’t take any notice of me as I strip off. They’re not interested in nudity, only brains.

  I try on shoes once I’m comfortable in the clothes, but can’t easily slip them on because of the bones poking out of my toes. Finally I grab a few pairs of socks and jam them over my feet, letting the bones stick out through the ends.

  A good hat is the next item on my shopping list. I don’t find anything that I like in the women’s section, so I head to the men’s department and spot an Australian cork hat. Once I’ve pulled off the corks and string, it’s perfect — with its wide brim, it will shade my face and neck.

  ‘G’day, mate,’ I drawl in a terrible Australian accent, studying myself in a mirror. ‘Looking good, sport.’ I try to wink at my reflection, forgetting again that my eyelids don’t work. I scowl, then laugh at my foolishness. ‘No worries!’

  I make my final stop by one of the sales desks, where sunglasses lie scattered across the floor. I root through and find a few which fit me and which I don’t mind the look of. When I’m happy with my choices, I put three pairs in my bag and clip the other pair on to the neck of my jumper.

  All sorted, I grab some magazines, return to the windows at the front of the store and lie down. I spend the rest of the night reading about showbiz stars who will never glitter again now that the world has gone to hell, glancing up every so often to watch the occasional zombie prowl past outside.

  When dawn breaks and the streets clear, I get up, toss the magazines aside, slip on my glasses and hat, pull
on my gloves and step out into the brightening day. My eyes tighten behind the shades but gradually adjust. They’re not as sharp as they were in the darkness, but protected by the dark glasses, I can see OK.

  I move into the middle of the road and stand bathed by the rays of the sun, to test whether or not they irritate me through the covering of my clothes. They do to an extent, and the itching starts again, but it’s nowhere near as bad as it was. I can live with it, so to speak.

  ‘Right,’ I snap. ‘The day is mine.’

  And off I set through the empty streets, claiming them as my own. B Smith — queen of the city!

  FIVE

  In all honesty, it’s not much of a city to be queen of. I used to think that London was one of the most exciting places in the world, always buzzing, always something going on. Now it’s like walking through the world’s biggest graveyard, and an ugly, messy one at that.

  The battle between the living and the dead must have been apocalyptic. There are signs of chaos everywhere, broken windows, crashed cars, corpses left to rot outdoors. Many houses and shops are burnt out and fires still smoulder in some of them. In other places pipes have burst and streets are flooded.

  There are bloodstains everywhere and lots of dried pools of vomit. The reviveds might not be as mentally clued-up as I am, but it looks like they figured out the vomiting part easily enough. I guess even the mostly senseless dead get a shiver at the notion of playing host to a brood of worms, maggots and the like.

  The stench isn’t as bad as I thought it would be, but it’s fairly gross all the same, especially since my nose is more sensitive than it once was.

  Birds, rats and insects are feasting on the vomit, blood and rotting flesh. They’re enjoying the run of the city now that the zombies have withdrawn for the day. The more alert creatures scatter as soon as they spot me, the birds taking to the air, the rats vanishing down the nearest hole. Only the insects ignore me and go about their business uninterrupted.

  The electricity supply varies from street to street. In some it’s been cut off and every house is dead. In others it’s as strong as ever, lights are on, static crackles from radios, TV sets flicker in shop windows. I consider checking the channels, to find out if anyone is alive and broadcasting, but I can do that later. I want to continue exploring on foot first, not waste the tranquillity of the daylight. I can channel-surf tonight when the zombies come out in force and I hole up.

  I come to a butcher’s shop, pause and stick my head inside. Slabs of dried-out meat lie rotting everywhere. A few scavenging flies crawl across the withered cuts, searching for bits that are still edible, but I think they’ll struggle.

  A pig’s carcass hangs upside down from a hook. Its head has been clawed open. I stare at it thoughtfully. I’m guessing that a zombie ripped out the brain, which maybe means we can thrive on animal brains too. I thought only human brains would keep us going, but it’s good news if we can absorb nutrients from animals as well — I’d much rather scoop clean the inside of a pig’s head than a human’s.

  This might be why I haven’t seen any larger creatures. With humanity out of the way, wild dogs and cats should have the run of the streets. But so far I’ve seen nothing but rats, birds and smaller specimens. Maybe the zombies killed and ate the brains of larger animals, and all of London’s pets have either been butchered or scared off.

  I’ll have to swing by London Zoo at some point. It’s probably been cleaned out already – or the animals will most likely have died of starvation – but maybe I’ll be able to gain access to areas off-limits to normal zombies. The good thing about having a working brain is that you can read maps and search for keys to unlock doors, simple tasks which are beyond most of the undead.

  As I turn away from the pig, I notice a small red z painted on the frame of the door, a tiny arrow just beneath it. I frown, trying to remember where I’ve seen something like that before. Then I recall Mr Dowling daubing my cheek with a mark just like this one.

  I glance around nervously. Have the clown and his mutants been here? Might they be watching me now? Mr Dowling freaked me out big time, especially when he opened his lips and dropped a stream of living spiders over me. I don’t want to hang around and risk another run-in with him.

  Hurrying from the shop, I come to a set of traffic lights. The electricity is working here and the lights are operating as normal. The red man is illuminated and I automatically stop, waiting for the light to change to green.

  After a few seconds, I squint at the light, look left, then right. Nothing moves.

  ‘Of course not,’ I grimace. ‘There’s no traffic because everyone’s dead. You’re a bloody moron, B.’

  I chuckle at my stupidity. Stopping for a traffic light in a city of the dead! I’m glad none of my friends lived to see that. Ignoring the red light, I step out into the road. I’m not far from my old neighbourhood. Another hour, maybe a bit more, and I’ll be back on –

  An engine roars into life. My head snaps round and I spot a car tearing towards me. It had been parked nearby. I’d seen people moving around inside, but figured they were zombies sheltering from the sun.

  I figured wrong.

  Before I can withdraw to the safety of the pavement, the driver turns on his headlights and I’m momentarily blinded, even wearing the sunglasses. Wincing, I turn my head away and shake it wildly, disoriented and in pain.

  Then the car smashes into me and knocks me flying through the air, far down the middle of the road, which up until a few seconds ago seemed just as dead and unthreatening as any other in this ghost city of the damned.

  SIX

  I hit the ground hard and slide for a few metres before coming to a stunned stop. Shaking my head, I woozily get to my feet. No bones seem to be broken, but my elbows have been badly grazed and the back of my head is throbbing. I run a hand over my scalp. Lots of torn flesh but it doesn’t feel too serious. The jacket and clothes I picked up earlier are ripped to shreds, but all things considered it could have been a lot worse.

  Then the doors of the car open and as four men step out, I realise it’s far too soon to be judging this a lucky escape.

  The men are dressed in combats and black boots. Each totes a rifle and I spot smaller guns and hunting knives strapped to their legs and chests. They’re smiling and laughing, not looking in the least afraid.

  ‘She’s up,’ one of the men says. ‘You must be losing your touch, Coley.’

  ‘I’m not losing anything,’ the man called Coley snaps. ‘I was only doing about thirty when I hit her. Didn’t want to finish her off too soon. Essex, you want first shot?’

  ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ the man on my far left says and raises his rifle.

  I dive for cover behind a nearby car as he fires. He curses and fires again, but only hits one of the wheels.

  ‘You missed,’ Coley hoots.

  ‘No fair!’ Essex shouts. ‘They’re not supposed to hide.’

  ‘Not all of them stand still,’ one of the other men says, and this guy speaks in a thick American accent. ‘The survival instinct is still alive in some. Looks like we might have a real hunt on our hands, gentlemen.’

  ‘You want to deal with her, Barnes?’ Coley asks.

  ‘No,’ the American says. ‘Let’s give Tag a shot first. This is what we brought them along for.’

  ‘What do I do?’ the fourth man asks. He sounds nervous.

  ‘Edge over to your right,’ Barnes says, and I hear him creeping around to my left. ‘I’ll flush her out. As soon as she –’

  I don’t wait for him to give more orders. Keeping low, I race back towards the butcher’s shop, catching the men by surprise. A couple yell with alarm and fire wildly. Bullets scream past but I keep going.

  I’m close to the shop when one of the men hits the window with a bullet and it shatters. As glass sprays everywhere, I fling myself through the hole and roll across the counter before dropping to the floor and taking cover.

  ‘Hellfire!’ Essex shouts. ‘Did
you see that?’

  ‘Careful, boys,’ Barnes drawls. ‘We’ve got a live one here. Relatively speaking.’

  ‘How do you want to play this?’ Coley asks. He sounds excited.

  ‘That depends on these two,’ the American says. ‘Do you want to go in after her and risk the thrill of a close encounter, or would you rather we smoked her out?’

  As they discuss tactics, I raise my head, get a fix on them, then scout around and pick up a hefty butcher’s knife. This is why I came back here rather than flee down the road. I was a target out there, the tools I picked up earlier no use against a group of guys with guns. I hate being trapped like this, but at least I have a decent weapon now.

  Shuffling backwards, I search for another way out. There’s a door at the rear of the shop, but it’s locked and I can’t find the key. I hurl myself at the door, hoping to smash through, but it’s made of metal and it holds. I only bounce off it, bruising my arm in the process.

  ‘What’s she doing?’ I hear Tag cry.

  ‘Maybe she’s lost her head and is thrashing around,’ Barnes says calmly. ‘Or she might be trying to find another way out. Coley, swing round back and make sure she doesn’t sneak away.’

  ‘She wouldn’t be smart enough to think of that,’ Coley says.

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ Barnes grunts. ‘Some are almost as cunning as they were in life.’

  As Coley circles round, the American addresses the other pair. ‘This is unusual but not unheard of. Some of these beasts are smarter than others. They recall routines and procedures in some dim corner of their foul, undead brain and act like they did when they were alive.’

  ‘How dangerous are they?’ Tag asks.

  ‘All zombies are dangerous,’ Barnes huffs.

  ‘But if this one’s more of a threat than most, shouldn’t we back off and leave her be?’