Zom-B Baby

by Darren Shan

  I’m tramping down a corridor, not sure where I’m going or what my plans are, when someone rushes up behind me. Before I can react, arms snake across my stomach and grab me. I’m hauled into the air and twirled round. I catch a glimpse of Rage’s face as I’m whirling.

  ‘Let me go!’ I shout.

  ‘Your wish is my command,’ he says and instantly releases me.

  I stagger across the floor, slam into a wall and fall. My head is spinning badly. I lean forward and dry-heave. There are white flashes in front of my eyes.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Rage asks.

  ‘No,’ I gasp, then sit back against the wall and wait for my head to clear. When it finally does and the heaving stops, I glare at him. ‘What did you do that for?’

  ‘Just trying to cheer you up. Did you get dizzy?’

  ‘What does it look like, numbnuts?’

  ‘Did that used to happen when you were spun around in the past?’ he asks.

  ‘Yeah. Not as bad as this, but my ears were never the best. They used to pop like mad when I flew. If I went on a spinning ride at a funfair, I’d have a headache for hours.’

  ‘Oh. I thought it might be something to do with being dead. I was worried for a minute.’

  ‘No need to be,’ I snarl, getting to my feet. ‘You can still go on merry-go-rounds any time you like.’

  ‘I preferred you when you were suffering,’ Rage sniffs and reaches out to grab me again.

  ‘You’ll lose both hands if you try it,’ I snap, then squint at him. ‘Why the hell are you trying to cheer me up anyway? What does it matter to you how I feel?’

  ‘It doesn’t,’ he says. ‘But the others thought someone should come after you. They were concerned, thought you might do something stupid, maybe top yourself. I figured I’d look like a caring, sensitive guy if I volunteered to help you, especially as they all know that you hate me. So here I am.’

  ‘You’re too sweet for this world,’ I jeer. ‘Head on back to those muppets and tell them I’m fine.’

  ‘Not yet,’ Rage says. ‘It’s too soon. It wouldn’t look like I’d tried very hard. I’ll tag along with you for a while.’

  ‘What if I don’t want you to?’

  ‘Tough.’ He flashes me a grin. ‘If you do want to top yourself, I know a place where you can get some great power drills. I’ll even help you choose the best bit for it. I’d love to see someone drill through their own skull.’

  ‘There’s the Rage I know and loathe,’ I chuckle.

  ‘Honest Rage,’ he smirks. ‘That’s how I define myself these days. Telling the truth is what I’m all about.’

  ‘It must be a nice change,’ I sneer.

  ‘It is.’ There’s a long silence while we eye each other. ‘But seriously,’ Rage says, breaking it, ‘if you do want me to recommend a good drill …’

  SEVEN

  We exit County Hall and walk to the corner of the building. We can see part of Waterloo Station from here, and the London Eye.

  ‘Have you been back into the station since Zhang tested us?’ Rage asks.

  I look at him oddly. ‘No. Why the hell would I?’

  ‘I have,’ he says. ‘I’ve gone in there with a rucksack seeded with brains, done the run through the zombies again, trying to improve my time.’

  ‘Why?’ I frown.

  ‘I want to be top dog. You’ve got to push yourself if you want to get ahead.’

  ‘You’d better be careful,’ I say drily, ‘or you’ll wear yourself out.’

  ‘Nah,’ Rage grins. ‘It’s not just all about the training. I make time for fun stuff too. For instance, I walked up to the IMAX theatre the other day. Wanted to see if I could screen a film.’

  ‘Could you?’ I ask.

  ‘Wasn’t able to try. The place was packed with zombies. I forced my way through to the projectionist’s booth, but the buggers had beaten me to it. Some of them had made it their home and it was a mess, equipment smashed to pieces. A shame. I was hoping to screen Night of the Living Dead there.’

  It’s hard to tell if he’s joking or not.

  ‘The noise would have been awful anyway,’ I note. ‘The IMAX had the best sound system in London, great for a living person with normal hearing, but with ears like ours it would have been deafening.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Rage says. ‘But fun. The reviveds would have hated it. They’d have howled like wolves.’ He stretches, looks at the sky and grimaces. It’s a cloudy day but still way too bright for the likes of us. ‘Where were you headed before I stopped you?’

  ‘Nowhere.’

  ‘Really? You were marching like a girl with a purpose.’

  ‘I just wanted to get away.’

  Rage scratches an armpit and grunts. Must be force of habit — we don’t sweat, so he can’t have itchy pits.

  ‘It’s boring here, isn’t it?’ he says. ‘That’s why I keep looking for things to do. I hate the silence. A city should be buzzing, not quiet like this. It’s like the God-awful countryside these days.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with the countryside,’ I sniff. ‘I used to enjoy days out.’

  ‘No, you didn’t,’ Rage argues. ‘It was hell out there, nothing but fields, trees and Mother bloody Nature. If people loved that so much, they wouldn’t have built cities and moved to them. The countryside’s boring and so’s London now.’

  He turns in a circle, looking for something to amuse him. He pauses when he spots the London Eye, then nods at me. ‘Come on.’

  ‘I’m not going on the Eye. I’ve been up a few times since I moved into County Hall. It always leaves me feeling down, seeing how much of the city has been ruined.’

  ‘Just follow me,’ he insists.

  At the Eye, instead of hopping aboard one of the pods, he heads for the control booth. There’s always an Angel on watch in a pod, as well as one in the booth to monitor the big wheel. Today the person on duty is Ivor, a guy I know pretty well, although I wouldn’t claim to be a close friend. I first ran into him when he was on a mission with his team, and we’ve had a few conversations since then, when our paths have crossed.

  Ivor has brought a load of locks with him, and is fiddling with them to while away the time. He’s able to pick just about any lock. I’d love to be able to do that, but although I’ve tried a few times, I’m not a natural.

  ‘Don’t you ever stop practising?’ Rage shouts, startling Ivor, who was focused on the locks and didn’t see us approach. He almost drops the lock that he’s working on, but catches it just in time.

  ‘It’s good to keep your hand in,’ Ivor says, smiling at us. ‘My fingers are like a lock — they get rusty if I don’t keep using them.’

  Ivor spends a few minutes showing us how to pick the lock. He makes it look so easy, but I get nowhere with it. Rage doesn’t even try.

  ‘These fingers weren’t made for work like that,’ he says, giving them a wiggle.

  ‘They’re like sausages,’ I laugh.

  ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Perfect for smashing, not picking.’

  We chat with Ivor for a while, then Rage asks if he can stop the Eye.

  ‘Stop it?’ Ivor frowns.

  ‘Just for ten or fifteen minutes. You don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘I’m not supposed to,’ Ivor says. ‘Dr Oystein likes us to keep it going all the time.’

  ‘I know. But we’ll pretend that someone in a wheelchair was boarding and they got stuck.’

  Ivor laughs. Rage works on him a bit more and finally he agrees to the odd request.

  ‘But no more than a quarter of an hour,’ he insists. ‘And if the doc or Master Zhang asks, I’ll tell them it was for you.’

  ‘Cheers,’ Rage says, hurrying out of the booth.

  ‘What are you up to?’ I ask suspiciously as I follow him.

  ‘You’ll see in a sec,’ he promises and trots to the nearest pod.

  There are small handles running around the pod. Rage grabs hold and climbs quickly until he’s standing on the roof. I still don�
��t know what he’s planning, but I’m curious, so I climb up after him.

  ‘They must be the biggest spokes in the world,’ Rage says, staring at the mesh of links above us. ‘Imagine if you had another wheel the size of this and you could make a bike out of them.’

  ‘You’re crazy,’ I laugh.

  ‘Yeah,’ he grins, then jumps and grabs hold of one of the bars. He pulls himself up then slides across until he’s hugging the rim of the wheel. ‘Race you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Race you,’ he beams. ‘Come on, up you get.’

  I stare at him uncertainly.

  ‘Are you chicken?’ he growls.

  ‘Sod you,’ I snap. ‘I just don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘A race,’ he says. ‘Along the inside of the rim, all the way to the top.’

  I frown, then study the metal rim. I follow it with my gaze at it curves outwards and upwards, before arcing back in on itself past the halfway mark and coming full circle at the top.

  ‘You are bloody crazy!’ I gasp, seeing now what he wants to do.

  ‘I might be crazy but I’m no coward,’ Rage chuckles. ‘Come on, I dare you — a race. We’re stronger than we were. We’ve got these neat bones sticking out of our fingers and toes to help us grip. I’m sure we can do it.’

  ‘Even if we could, why the hell would we want to?’

  ‘Now who’s the crazy one?’ he jeers. ‘I’m challenging you to a race up the London Eye. Nobody could have done that in the past, not without equipment. How cool will it be to be the first pair in the world to free-climb this baby?’

  ‘It’s impossible,’ I mumble. ‘If we made it past the halfway point, we’d have to hang upside down.’ I point to the bar running up the centre of the Eye, linking the two rims of the wheel. Smaller bars from the rims connect with it at regular intervals. We could use them for support. ‘What about that way? It would be safer and easier.’

  ‘This isn’t about safe and easy,’ Rage says. ‘I think we’ll be all right even if we fall – we’re hard to kill – but if not, what of it? We’ve all got to go eventually. How would you prefer to leave this world — as a decaying, decrepit old fart, or trying to climb the London Eye in your prime?’

  ‘Dr Oystein won’t like it if a couple of his precious Angels risk their lives on something this pointless,’ I murmur with a wicked smirk.

  ‘I don’t think either one of us is that bothered about keeping Dr Oystein happy,’ Rage snorts. ‘Last one up’s a rotten zombie!’

  And off he shoots.

  For a few seconds I shake my head and tut loudly. Then, with a whoop, I leap, grab hold of a bar, pull myself up, steady myself on the rim and off I tear.

  EIGHT

  This is crazy. I know that even before I start. But hell, there’s no denying it’s fun! I haven’t had an adrenalin rush like this since I returned to consciousness. Well, OK, it’s not an actual adrenalin rush, since I doubt my body produces that any more. But it damn sure feels like it.

  The rim of the wheel is thicker than I expected. A cable runs along the inside, good for gripping, but on the outside it’s pure steel which isn’t so accommodating.

  At first it’s easy. I scuttle along, no problem with my toughened flesh and bones. I laugh with delight, not bothered by the sunlight or what might happen to me if I fall, the gloom of the last week forgotten, focusing on nothing except my ascent.

  Then it starts to get tricky. The higher I climb, the more gravity drags at me. From the ground the incline didn’t look too steep, but when you’re up here and following it, you get a fresh perspective. From about the quarter mark it’s like climbing at ninety degrees. I start to slip and sway in the breeze, which seems much stronger than it did a few minutes ago.

  I struggle on, teeth gritted, refusing to look at the ground. Cuts open on both hands as the steel and cable slice into them when I slip. Thankfully my blood doesn’t flow as swiftly as it once did – it just seeps out slowly – or I’d have to stop. As it is, I can push on, pausing every so often to wipe the congealed blood from my palms.

  I’m almost halfway up the wheel when I lose my grip completely. I fall with a cry that’s cut short when I slam into one of the support poles which connects with the central bar. I cling on desperately as my legs swing freely beneath me. I hear Rage whooping with glee — he must have paused at the perfect time to catch my big slip. I’d love to shoot him the finger but I don’t dare loosen my grip.

  If I was human, I’d be done for. The wind would have been knocked from my sails, my muscles would be aching from the climb. Not being a Hollywood movie star, I doubt I’d be able to pull myself to safety. It would be the long drop for me.

  But being dead has its advantages. I don’t breathe, and my body isn’t as confined by the laws of physics as it used to be. After dangling for a while, I haul myself up until I’m hanging across the bar. I wipe my hands dry, steady myself, grip the rim and start climbing again.

  I’m just past the halfway mark when Rage shouts to me. ‘Oi! Smith!’ His voice is tinny, coming from so far away, but the wind carries it and my supersharp ears pick it up.

  I take a firm hold and look across to where he’s hanging opposite me. My eyes are less effective than my ears, so he’s only a vague blob in the distance. ‘What?’ I roar.

  ‘What are we gonna do now?’ he yells. ‘It would be easier if we shifted to the outside of the rim. If we stick to the inside, we’ll be hanging upside down the rest of the way.’

  I’d been thinking about that myself. I was going to suggest we move to the other side, so we could crawl on top of the rim instead of dangle from its underside. But now that he’s getting cold feet, I don’t want to ease up. He was the dope who suggested this crazy challenge. I want to make him go through with it, even though that means me suffering as well.

  ‘If you want to back down, let me know,’ I roar cheerfully. ‘I won’t tell anyone you chickened out. Well, except for everyone we know.’

  ‘Screw you!’ he bellows. ‘I’m game if you are.’

  ‘Then what are you waiting for?’ I laugh and start climbing again.

  It soon becomes clear that we really are mad to attempt this. As hard as it was before, it’s ten times more difficult now. I’m hanging from the rim like a squirrel, but squirrels have tails, padded paws and the benefit of countless generations of instinct to draw upon. Humans were never meant to climb like this, not even undead buggers like me.

  The hardest parts are where the bars to the inner circle connect. The rim bulges out in those spots and I have to ease around the protuberances. That was easy on the lower sections, but not when I’m hanging upside down and every muscle in my arms is stretched to snapping point.

  I keep my feet hooked over the rim for as much of the climb as I can, dragging them along, feeling the steel and cable slice deeply into my flesh. Pain doesn’t hit you as much as it used to when you’re a zombie, but we’re not immune to it and I’m starting to really sting. I haven’t felt this rough since I staggered away from Trafalgar Square after my last encounter with Mr Dowling.

  My feet keep slipping. Eventually, when I move into the last quarter of the climb, I unhook them and hang at full stretch, supported solely by my hands. I was good on the monkey bars in playgrounds when I was a kid. I could swing across as often as I pleased, laughing at the others who couldn’t match me. Time to find out if I still have the old magic.

  I inch forward, moving my hands one at a time, concentrating as I never have before. I don’t want to slip, and it’s got nothing to do with the threat of smashing my skull open or the possibility that Rage will beat me to the top. I need to prove to myself that I can do this. As ludicrous as it is, this has become important to me. I figure if I can do this, I can attempt just about anything. Maybe this is what I need to clear my head and haul me out of the miserable, indecisive pit that I’ve been rotting in this past week.

  It feels like the climb is never going to end. I want to shut m
y eyes but I can’t. I want to take the strain from my arms but I can’t. I want to rest for a while but … You get the picture.

  I spy Rage across from me. He hasn’t made it as far as I have. He’s struggling. He’s stronger than me but a hell of a lot heavier too. In a situation like this, where weight comes into play, it’s good to be a slim snip of a girl.

  I get a second wind (relatively speaking) when I see that I’m doing better than Rage. With something between a triumphant shout and a despondent groan, I force myself on, finding fresh strength somewhere deep inside me, ignoring the pain, physics, gravity, the whole damn lot.

  Finally, when I’m sure I can’t go any further, I reach the highest point. I hang there for several long seconds, staring down at my feet and the drop beneath. I feel strangely peaceful. The pain in my arms seems to fade. If I fell right now and split my head open on a spoke, I could go happy into the great beyond.

  But this isn’t a day for bidding my final farewell to the world. With a determined moan, I pull myself up, hook a leg over the rim, pause to let my arms recover, then search for the handles on the uppermost pod. Finding them, I haul myself up, almost scurrying compared to the slow pace of my previous progress, and moments later, I’m lying on top of the pod, staring at the clouds in the sky, a BIG smile on my face, waiting for the slow, shamed Rage to join me.

  Bloody yes, mate!

  NINE

  Rage crawls on to the roof of the pod about a minute later. He’s not huffing or puffing – with our redundant lungs we don’t do that any more – but his limbs are shaking, especially his arms, the same way mine are.

  ‘Sod me!’ he gasps, collapsing on to his back and covering his eyes with a weary, trembling arm.

  ‘No thanks,’ I smirk, then dig him in the ribs with my knuckles. ‘Who’s the queen of the castle and who’s a dirty rascal?’

  ‘Get stuffed,’ he barks.

  ‘Come on, you set the challenge. Don’t be a sore loser, just tell me who’s the queen and –’