by Darren Shan
‘Enough already,’ he growls. ‘You beat me fair and square. Happy?’
‘Ecstatic,’ I beam.
‘I don’t know how I made it,’ Rage mutters. ‘Those last few metres were hell. I just wanted to drop and end the agony.’
‘You’re too big for climbing,’ I chuckle. ‘Size matters but sometimes it’s better to be small.’
‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I guess.’
We lie there a while longer, relaxing, ignoring the glare of the daylight and the itching it causes. Then the Eye starts slowly revolving again. Ivor either saw us make the top or else he decided enough was enough.
I get to my feet to have a good look around. It’s hard to see clearly without sunglasses to protect my eyes, but I force myself to turn and peer. Everything’s blurred to begin with, but things start to swim into focus (well, as much as they’re ever going to) as my eyes slowly adjust.
Rage stands up beside me. He doesn’t bother with the sights, just rolls his arms around, working out the kinks and stretching his muscles.
‘I bet we’ll ache like hell later,’ I note. ‘We might even have to go back into the Groove Tubes.’
‘Dr Oystein won’t let us,’ Rage says. ‘He’ll make us endure the pain. The Groove Tubes are for Angels who really need them, who get injured in the line of duty, not for thrill-seekers like us.’
‘Oh well,’ I smile, ‘I don’t care. It was worth it. I never thought I could have done something this amazing. You’re still a murderous git, but you made a good call.’
‘That’s what I’m all about,’ Rage says smugly. ‘Making good calls and helping people realise their ambitions. The Good Samaritan had nothing on me.’
‘He was bit more modest though.’
‘Screw modesty,’ Rage sniffs, then takes a step closer to me. ‘Now, speaking of making good calls, here’s another. B?’
I was looking off in the direction of Vauxhall, trying to see if there were any signs of life over there. When Rage calls my name, I turn to face him. My back’s to the river.
‘Enjoy your flight,’ Rage says.
And he pushes me off.
My arms flail. I open my mouth to scream. Gravity grabs hold. I fall from the pod and plummet towards the river like a stone.
TEN
I hit the water hard. It feels like slamming into concrete. The lights temporarily blink out inside my head and everything goes dark.
When consciousness flickers on again, I think for a few seconds that I’m properly dead, adrift in a realm of ghosts. There are sinuous shadows all around, encircling and breaking over me. I assume that my brain was terminally damaged in the fall. I turn slowly, at peace, glad in a way to be done with life and all semblance of it. I spot a glimmering zone overhead — the legendary ball of light which summons the spirits of the departed?
No, of course not. After a brief moment of awe, I realise the truth. I’m still in the land of the living and the living dead. The shadows are nothing more than the eddies in the water. And the light is coming from the sun shining on the Thames.
I howl mutely, water rushing down my throat, cursing Rage and this world which refuses to relinquish its hold on me. Then, with disgust, I kick for the surface.
I haven’t drifted far from the London Eye. I can still see it gleaming above me, turning smoothly. No sign of Rage but I hurl a watery insult his way regardless. Then I swim towards the bank and pull myself ashore close to a bridge. I lie on the pebbly, rubbish-strewn bank, next to the remains of a bloated corpse, and make myself throw up. Then I get to my legs – understandably shaky – and stagger to a set of steps, then up to the South Bank.
I slump to the ground in front of what used to be the Royal Festival Hall. There are some restaurants and shops at this level, all closed for business now. There’s also an open, ramped section where teenagers used to practise on their rollerblades and skateboards. To my surprise and bewilderment, judging by the rumble of small, hard wheels, people are still using it.
I look up, wondering where the teenagers have come from, and how they dare take to the outdoors like this, when the area must be riddled with zombies. Then I realise they have nothing to fear from the zombies because they’re undead too.
There are at least five or six of them, maybe a few more. They have the blank expressions common to all reviveds, but some spark of instinct is urging them to act as they did when they were alive, and they trundle around the gloomy space on their skateboards, rolling down ramps, grinding along bars, slamming into the graffiti-covered walls.
The skateboarding zombies are nowhere near as graceful as they must have been in life. They fall often, clumsily, their hands and faces covered in scars, and they don’t try any sophisticated jumps or moves. But it’s still a strangely uplifting sight, and I start to clap stiffly, feeling somebody should applaud their efforts.
When they hear me clapping, the zombies instantly lose interest in their boards. The teenagers growl with hungry excitement and dart towards me, flexing their fingers, sniffing the air, thinking supper has come early.
They can’t see the hole in my chest, and I’m too tired to push myself upright, so I wave a weary hand in the air and they spot the bones sticking out of my fingertips. With some disappointed grunting sounds, they return to their patch, pick up the skateboards and start listlessly rolling around again, killing time until it’s night and they can set out in search of brains.
I watch the show for a few minutes, then make myself puke again and more water comes up. For once I’m glad I don’t have functioning taste buds — the water of the Thames was never the most inviting, but it’s worse than ever these days, stained with the juices and rotting remains of the bodies you often see bobbing along.
I’m still trembling with shock. My head is throbbing. I think several of my ribs are broken. My left eyelid is almost fully shut now and won’t respond to my commands. The fingers of both hands began to shake wildly when I stopped clapping and are spasming out of control.
I want to find Rage and rip his throat open, but in my sorry state I can’t go anywhere at the moment. I just have to sit here, suffer pitifully and hope that I recover.
After a while, the clouds part. The sunlight stings my flesh and hurts my eyes, but helps dry me off. The warmth revives me slightly and the shakes begin to subside. When my hands are my own again, I roll on to my front, groaning, wishing the fall had put me out of my misery. I lie on the pavement like a dead fish, steam rising from my clothes, feeling sorry for myself, plotting my revenge on Rage.
A shadow falls across me. I look up through my right eye and spot a familiar face. Speak of the Devil …
‘Have you clocked that lot?’ Rage mutters, staring at the skateboarding teenagers.
‘You’re dead,’ I gurgle.
‘Aren’t we all?’ he laughs, squatting beside me. ‘I half-hoped the fall would knock your brains out.’
‘Only half?’ I wheeze.
‘Yeah. Despite what you think, I don’t enjoy killing. I do it when necessary and don’t worry about it, but I never wanted to become a serial killer. I’m not out to break any records on that front.’
‘So why did you push me off?’ I snarl, sitting up and shaking my head to get rid of the water in my ears.
‘Making a point,’ he says. ‘I got sick of watching you mope around. Decided you needed a good, hard kick up the arse.’ Rage stands and starts rolling his arms again, still aching from the climb. ‘Dr Oystein would have done all he could to save you up there. If I’d told him what I was planning, he would have thrown himself between us and stood up for you. He’s not like me. He doesn’t think you’re worthless scum.’
‘That’s your opinion of me?’ I bristle.
Rage shrugs. ‘It’s my opinion of us all. I never thought people were anything special. A grim, brutal, boring lot. You got the occasional interesting person, like those skateboarders over there — still cool, even in death. But most of us were only good for breeding, fighting and screwin
g up the planet.’
‘You’re some piece of work,’ I snort.
‘Just being honest,’ he smiles. ‘I’m a lot of bad things but I’m not a hypocrite. I always saw people for what they were, and I never thought that was very much. Dr Oystein, on the other hand, sees the good stuff where I see the bad. He wants to make heroes out of me, you, Ivor and all the rest. I don’t think he’s gonna get very far with that, but I respect the mad old bugger for trying.’
‘I’m sure he’d be delighted to hear that,’ I sneer, getting up to face Rage.
‘You need to accept the doc for what he is, or get the hell out of here,’ Rage says softly. ‘What I liked about you when we first met was that you stood up for your beliefs. You didn’t like the way we were experimenting on the reviveds, so you refused to play ball. If you really don’t trust Dr Oystein, you need to do that again. I hate seeing you mope around. You’re better than that. Stronger than that.’
I stare at Rage, confused. He sounds like he’s genuinely trying to help me. Or maybe he just wants me out of the way because I can see through him, because I know he’s a threat.
‘Listen up,’ Rage says. ‘These are your options. You can come back with me to County Hall, quit moaning and be a good little Angel like the rest of us. Or you can bugger off and look for a home elsewhere. Choose.’
‘Screw you!’ I roar, finding my fiery temper again. ‘I don’t have to do what you tell me!’
Rage grins. ‘Are you gonna tell me I’m not the boss of you?’
I laugh despite myself. ‘Bastard,’ I mutter, shaking my head.
‘B,’ Rage says calmly, ‘I’m saying all this because I think of you as an equal. I wouldn’t bother with most of the others. They’re mindless sheep, like the zom heads were. You need to get with the programme or get lost. If you’re not happy here, go look for happiness somewhere else. You know the set-up with Dr Oystein. If you can’t buy into it, get out now before you drive yourself mental.’
‘And go where?’ I mumble. ‘Who’ll look out for me apart from the doc and Mr Burke?’
‘That doesn’t matter,’ Rage says. ‘You’re not a child, so don’t act like one.’
‘I’m more of a child than an adult,’ I argue.
‘Nah,’ he says. ‘We’ve all had to grow up since we died. You can look after yourself. You survived on your own before you came to County Hall. You can survive on your own again.’
‘But I don’t want to,’ I whisper.
‘Tough. You’re acting like a sulky little girl. Nobody else will tell you to your face. I don’t know if they’re being diplomatic or if they’re afraid of losing you, given how few of us there are. But you’re not doing anyone any good like this. Be honest with me — does part of you wish you’d cracked your head open when I pushed you off the Eye? Were you tempted to not crawl out of the river, to just let it wash you away and dump you somewhere nobody could ever find you?’
I nod slowly, hating him for knowing me so well, hating myself for it being true.
‘It’s a big world,’ Rage says. ‘I’m sure there’s a place in it, even for a moody cow like you.’
He turns to leave.
‘Will you tell the others I said goodbye?’ I call after him.
‘No,’ he grunts without looking back.
I treat myself to a grim smirk. Then, accepting the decision which Rage has helped me make, I push to my feet and cast one last longing glance in the direction of the London Eye and County Hall. Snorting water from my nose, I turn my back on them both and head off into the wilderness, abandoning the promise of friendship and redemption, becoming just another of the city’s many lost, lonely, godforsaken souls.
ELEVEN
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.