Zom-B Baby

by Darren Shan

They stand silently, an army of them, motionless, faces raised to the ceiling, as if trying to determine exactly where the shriek of the baby is coming from.

  Timothy trembles, losing his cool at last.

  ‘Easy,’ I whisper. ‘They’re not moving. They look like they’re in some kind of a trance. We might be able to slip through them.’

  I take a step down.

  No response.

  Another step.

  Not a single zombie moves.

  A couple more, then I stretch out my right foot to take the final step.

  As soon as my toes touch the ground, the neck of every zombie snaps down as they lower their heads in perfect timing. They bare their teeth and snarl, then surge towards us without breaking ranks.

  ‘Bugger!’ I scream, turning to start back up the stairs. ‘Come on!’ I roar at Timothy. ‘We’ve got to try for the roof.’

  ‘We’ll never make it,’ he sobs but tears along after me.

  We hurry through the room of supplies. Timothy is praying aloud, his words coming fast and furious, sounding like gibberish. We reach the stairs to the main gallery. They’re clear. No sign of any zombies. I silently thank God and ask Him for another minute, sixty seconds, that’s all we need. If we can make it to the roof, Timothy can cling to my back and I can either leap to another roof or all the way to the ground. My legs should be able to take a drop like that. I might break a few bones but it won’t scramble my brain. Even if I can’t carry on, Timothy can escape by himself. The zombies won’t harm me once he’s gone. He can return for me later. A minute. That’s all we need. That’s not too much to ask for, is it?

  Apparently it is.

  We’re not even halfway up the stairs when the zombies from the upper floor come spilling towards us. They’ve made it through the windows and boards. They stagger down the steps, arms outstretched, leering hungrily.

  Timothy screams and turns to flee, but more zombies are coming up the steps, having tracked us from the room below.

  We’re screwed.

  I reach out to grab Timothy and pull him in tight, meaning to bite his neck, figuring the best I can do for him now is to end it quickly and maybe give him a chance of revitalising. I was injected with Dr Oystein’s vaccine when I was a child. That’s why I recovered my wits when I was turned into a zombie. Maybe I can pass some of my revitalising genes on to Timothy. I doubt he stands much of a chance but it’s better than none at all.

  But I’m too late. A zombie tackles me before I can strike and I fall to the steps, driven down by the weight of my assailant. Others throw themselves on top of me, burying me at the bottom of a pile of bodies.

  ‘Timothy!’ I shriek.

  ‘Goodbye, B,’ he says sadly as the first of the zombies pins him to the wall and scrapes at his stomach. Others swarm around him, digging into the flesh of his arms and legs with their bony fingers. Timothy screams, a cry of pure agony and loss. He screams again as zombies rip chunks of flesh from his body with their teeth. They’re not concerned about converting him — they want to finish him off.

  Madness fills Timothy’s eyes, but with a supreme effort he shrugs it off for one last instant and locks gazes with me as I stare at him helplessly from my position on the floor.

  ‘Take care of my paintings,’ he wheezes pleadingly.

  Then a zombie digs its fingers through Timothy’s eyes. He has time to scream once more before the zombie breaks through to his brain and starts scraping it out and cramming pieces into its foul, eager mouth.

  There’s no more screaming after that. Timothy Jackson is dead and gone. And all I can do is wait for the zombies to rip me apart and maybe send my soul to join Timothy’s in the peaceful, welcome realms beyond.

  NINETEEN

  The zombies piled on top of me poke and maul me, unable to strike cleanly because so many are pressed in around me. Then, as the others retreat from Timothy’s bloody, shredded remains, those holding me down fall still. I hear them sniffing and I sense them cocking their heads, listening for a heartbeat. When they realise I’m dead, they go slack and start pushing themselves off me, no longer viewing me as either a threat or a tasty treat.

  I rise with a groan, prop myself against the wall and stare miserably at all that is left of my artistic, eccentric friend. He was a crazy but sweet guy. He deserved better than this. But then so did billions of others. In this world of savagery and death, there’s only what you get. Deserve doesn’t come into it any more.

  The zombies don’t budge. Those with nothing to eat aren’t moving at all, just standing on the steps, faces raised again, looking towards the top of the stairs. They’re all silent, motionless, eyes fixed on the same spot. It’s eerie.

  I think about trying to slip away, but they reacted aggressively the last time I did that. I figure it’s safer to give it some time, see what happens.

  I don’t have to wait long. After about a minute, the zombies part, moving to both sides of the stairs, forming a bizarre guard of honour. They don’t lower their heads as they shuffle over, gazes fixed on that same spot at the top of the stairs.

  This is really freaking me out. I ready myself to run, sod the consequences. I’d rather be torn apart than remain among this lot. There’s something sinister going down and I don’t want to be here when it hits.

  But I’m too late. Even as I’m stretching out my foot to take my first tentative step, a pack of zombies appears at the top of the stairs. They march three abreast. They’re holding their arms above their heads, linked together. Those at the front are children, then women, then men, arranged according to height, the way they would be if marching in a parade.

  The children pass me, two rows of them. Then the women, three rows. Then the men start to come past. The first half-dozen have their arms linked over their heads, the same as the women and children. So have the men in the last two rows. But those between are holding something up high, as if it was a holy relic. Except this is no religious artefact.

  It’s the cot from the baby’s room.

  As they draw level with me, the procession comes to a stop. I’m staring at the side of the cot. As I watch, the baby crawls to the bars, then pulls itself up until it’s standing. It looks calmer than it did before, a slight smile in place. It’s stopped screaming. Its unblinking eyes are white again, the red sheen having receded.

  The baby is looking at me.

  ‘What the hell are you?’ I moan.

  ‘mummy,’ the baby says softly.

  ‘No,’ I wheeze, shaking my head, denying the claim. ‘I’m not your mother. I’m nothing to you.’

  The baby’s expression doesn’t alter, but its hands move and it pulls the bars further apart, as if they were made of rubber. When the space is wide enough, the baby gently pokes its head through the gap. Its smile spreads.

  ‘join us mummy,’ it says in its tinny, unnatural voice.

  ‘No,’ I say again. My throat has tightened. If I could cry, I’d be weeping now.

  The baby frowns. ‘don’t be frightened mummy. you’re one of us. come with us mummy.’

  ‘I’m not one of you!’ I scream. ‘I don’t even know what the hell you are.’

  The baby giggles. ‘yummy mummy. come.’

  ‘I’m not coming anywhere,’ I snarl. ‘You’re a bloody freak. I wouldn’t spit on you if you were on fire.’

  The baby seems to consider that. After a long pause, it draws its head inside the cot and bends the bars back into place. It looks disappointed.

  The zombies start to move again, down the stairs. The baby turns its face away and I think it’s over. Then they stop. The baby’s neck swivels and its nightmarish features swim back into view. Remembering the dreams I used to have, I expect it to tell me that I have to die now. I brace myself, waiting for the baby to climb the bars and hurl itself at me from the top of the cot.

  But this baby doesn’t appear to have murder on its mind. Its eyes don’t redden and its mouth doesn’t split into a vicious sneer. In fact it looks sad, maybe ev
en lonely. And when it addresses me again, it’s not to threaten or scare me. Instead it whispers something that makes me gawp at it with bewilderment.

  ‘we love you mummy.’

  With that, the macabre infant faces forward. It looks like a tiny prince or princess on a very grand throne, borne along by a team of devoted courtiers. It giggles, then the zombies resume their march. At the bottom of the stairs they process through the room of supplies, then down the small set of stairs to the ground-floor room and the exit.

  The zombies around me hold their position until the retinue passes from sight. Then they fall in behind and follow the cot and its carriers out of the building. A minute later, every single one of them has gone, and all that’s left behind are the paintings, Timothy’s scattered remains and the most incredulous, slack-jawed girl the world has ever seen.

  TWENTY

  For a long time I don’t move. I don’t even slump to the floor to take the weight from my weary legs. I’m frozen in place, replaying the scene in an endless loop inside my head, remembering everything about the baby, its face, what it said, how the zombies around it reacted.

  It was controlling them. It called for them when I removed the spike. They came in their hundreds, rescued it, took it wherever it told them to take it. Like the mutants who work for Mr Dowling, the baby somehow has the power to make zombies do what it wants.

  But it didn’t have the power to bend me to its will. I was able to resist its call to follow it back to its lair.

  Or was I? Maybe it simply let me go. It called me its mummy. It said it loved me. Maybe it thinks I really am its mother. It might have the potential to control me, but chose not to exercise it because of the bond it believes we share.

  This is insane.

  This is impossible.

  This is terrifying.

  Eventually I force myself to move. I struggle back up the stairs, taking them one slow step at a time. I shuffle into the nursery and gaze at the toys, the mobiles, the space where the cot stood. I spot the spike on the floor and seriously think about picking it up and driving it through my own skull. Escape from this world of horrors tempts me more than ever before. How can I witness something like this and carry on as if all is well or can ever be made well again?

  Ultimately I reject suicide, fearful that it might not achieve anything. The baby and its clones originally tormented me in my dreams. Now they’ve chased me into this world. Who’s to say they couldn’t follow me into the afterlife too?

  I limp back down the stairs to the room of supplies and search for a bag. I find a suitable one without too much difficulty, empty it of its contents, then retrace my steps and gather up the remains of poor Timothy. I hate having to do this – it would be much simpler to just leave – but I feel like I owe him. I brought the zombies down upon him. If I hadn’t come here, he might never have tried to pull the spike from the baby’s head. He could have gone on living and painting for months, maybe years, until his luck ran out. He’s dead because of me. The least I can do is tend to his remains and give him some sort of a halfway decent burial.

  I pick up every last scrap of Timothy, clothes as well as bones, skin and organs. I bag them all. After a while, I realise I’m making a low moaning noise, the closest I can get to crying. I don’t make myself stop.

  Job complete, I start to drag the bag down the stairs. I pause when I spot the trail of blood that I’m leaving behind. The bag isn’t blood-proof. The bits inside are leaking.

  I find another couple of bags, more resistant to liquids than the first, and triple-bag the corpse. That does the trick. There are no stains now.

  I lug the grisly package to the front door, then climb the stairs once more, get a bucket of water and a mop and go to work on washing away the blood. Timothy’s last request was that I looked after his paintings. The blood would attract flies and insects, maybe larger creatures like rats, which might attack the canvases. If I survive long enough, I plan to come back here every month or so, dust and clean, take care of the paintings, do all that I can to maintain the legacy of Timothy Jackson. That probably won’t prove much of a comfort to him where he’s gone, but it’s all I can do to honour his memory.

  When I’m finished cleaning, I return to the bag by the door and sit beside it. I don’t want to go out until night has passed and day has dawned. Too many zombies at large in the darkness. Too many shadows in which the living dead and killer babies can hide.

  I spend the night silently thinking, re-examining the world, my life, the very nature of the universe.

  I thought I had it sussed. I told Burke, Rage and Timothy that this wasn’t a world of miracles. If God existed, He didn’t get involved in what was happening to us. I couldn’t see His hand at work anywhere. We were on our own, I was sure of it.

  The baby suggests to me that I was wrong. For years I dreamt of babies just like this one. They looked the same, wore the same clothes, had the same eyes and fangs, even said the same things.

  ‘join us mummy.’

  ‘don’t be frightened mummy.’

  ‘you’re one of us.’

  How could I have dreamt about them, never having seen such a demonic baby until tonight? How could my nightmares have been so accurate, correct down to the tiniest detail? Did God send me visions of the future, to prepare me for what was to come, so that I would realise He was real and put my faith in others that He had chosen? Does He want me for His team?

  I don’t know. I want to believe – it would be so wonderful to think that I understood everything, and had been hand-picked by such a powerful being – but I can’t, not a hundred per cent. What I can do, however, after my run-in with the baby, is doubt. Not Dr Oystein but myself. There are enough questions in my mind now to make me far less sure that the doctor is deluded. I’m not saying I’m taking him at his word about God speaking to him. But I’m willing to listen to him now, to give him a chance, to put my faith in him.

  Hell, from where I’m standing after my experiences tonight, it makes as much sense as anything else in this wickedly warped world.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The sun rises and I haul Timothy’s remains outside. I shut the door behind me and hide the keys in the yard of the old brewery. I only remember the other door – the one the zombies used to get into the building – on my way down Brick Lane. I wince and think about retrieving the keys, going back inside and searching for the other entrance, to seal it.

  ‘Sod it,’ I mutter. ‘Life’s too short.’

  I’ll do my best for Timothy’s paintings, but I’m not going to go overboard. Right now I’m exhausted. I’m not in my worst ever physical state – that was after Trafalgar Square – but mentally I’m beat. I reckon I need to spend at least a month in a Groove Tube to recover. I can’t face even the minor challenge of searching for an open door. I’ll do it the next time I come. If zombies or other intruders beat me to the punch, sneak in before I return and wreak havoc, tough.

  I know where I want to take Timothy. I can’t be sure but I think he’d like it. Too bad if he doesn’t because he can’t complain now.

  I lug the bag through the streets, shivering and straining, itching beneath the sun — I have my hoodie pulled up but I forgot the hat and jacket. It should be a short walk – no more than five or ten minutes any normal time – but it takes me half an hour. I don’t mind. I’m not in a rush.

  Finally I reach my destination. Christ Church Spitalfields, one of London’s most famous churches, always popping up in films and TV shows about Jack the Ripper. It’s a creepy place, but beautiful in a stark way, and I think Timothy would have appreciated it. He loved the East End. I don’t recall him mentioning Christ Church, but I’m confident he would have raved about it if the subject had come up.

  There’s a small, grassy area in front of the church, some headstones dotted about. I find a nice spot for Timothy, somewhere that looks like it gets a lot of sun, then go in search of a shovel. I find one in a shop in Spitalfields Market, a colourful designer sp
ade for ladies who wanted to look chic in their garden. There are no zombies in any of the shops or restaurants. I suppose they abandoned their resting places in response to the baby’s call.

  It takes me longer than I thought to dig the hole, and not just because I’m so drained. Digging a grave is hard work. I wouldn’t have liked to do this for a living in the old days.

  I go down a couple of metres, not wanting to take chances and come back this way to find the grave dug up and raided by wild animals or zombies. When I’m happy with the depth, I haul myself out and lie on the grass for a while, an arm thrown across my face to shield my eyes from the sunlight.

  Rising, I consider removing Timothy’s remains from the bags, but why bother? Let them serve as his coffin. Probably not the way he would have liked to be buried, but better than nothing.

  I lower the bags into the grave, then stand over it hesitantly, trying to think of the proper prayers to say.

  ‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,’ I murmur, but I can’t remember the rest, and that doesn’t seem like enough. In the end I recite a few Hail Marys and an Our Father.

  ‘I hope you can carry on painting in the next world,’ I conclude weakly, then fill in the grave, silently bid Timothy one last farewell and glance at the spire of Christ Church. Shivering, I wonder if there really is a God or if I’m just grasping at straws, if the babies of my nightmares actually were a sign or just some freakily incredible coincidence. Am I right to trust Dr Oystein, or am I making the worst mistake of my life?

  With no way to know for sure, I shiver again, then turn my back on the church and shuffle along. I’ve spent enough time on the dead. Time to return to the business of the living and those caught in-between.

  TWENTY-TWO

  I make my way west, along the north bank of the river, no delays, no detours, no sightseeing. It’s early afternoon when I cross Westminster Bridge and catch sight of County Hall. Nowhere has ever looked so inviting or felt so much like home, not even my old flat where I lived with Mum and Dad.