Zom-B Angels

by Darren Shan

  After opening up a small cut beneath my right eye, Master Zhang says, ‘That will be enough. Return tomorrow. I want to see how your cuts moss over.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask.

  ‘We cannot heal as we could when we were alive,’ he explains. ‘Moss grows in places where we are cut, but it sprouts more thickly in some than in others. If the moss grows thinly over your cuts, you will continue to lose blood when you fight, which will affect your performance, making you of little use to us.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with my moss,’ I say confidently. ‘Look, it’s already stitching the wound closed, I can feel it.’ I tilt my head backwards, so that he can see.

  Master Zhang smiles thinly. ‘I believe that it is. But as I said, come back to see me tomorrow, and we will test it then.’

  ‘Assuming the moss grows thickly,’ I call after him as he turns to leave, ‘how did I do on the rest of the tests? Am I good enough to be a proper Angel with Carl and the others?’

  Master Zhang pauses and casts a slow look over me with his bloodshot left eye. I feel like I’m being X-rayed.

  ‘Physically, yes, my feeling is that you are, although there are a few more tests that you must complete before we can say for certain. Mentally?’ He looks unsure. ‘Most living people fear death more than anything else, but our kind need not, since we have already died. So tell me, Becky Smith, what do you fear more than anything else now?’

  I think about telling him that I don’t fear anything, but that wouldn’t be the truth. And I think about saying that I fear Mr Dowling, Owl Man and the mutants, but while I’m certainly scared of the killer clown and his strange associates, they’re not the ones who gnaw away at my nerves deep down. I’m sure that if I’m not totally honest with Master Zhang, he’ll pick up on the deception and it will go against me. So, even though I hate having to admit it, I tell him.

  ‘I’m afraid of myself,’ I croak, lowering my gaze to hide my shame. ‘I’ve done some bad things in the past, and I’m afraid, if I don’t keep a close watch on myself every single day, that I might do even worse.’

  There’s a long silence. Then Master Zhang makes a small clucking sound. ‘I think you will fit in here,’ he says.

  And that marks the end of the first round of tests.

  FIFTEEN

  ‘I told you it wouldn’t be exciting,’ Carl says as we head back to our room.

  I grunt.

  ‘You’ll have to get used to the boredom,’ he continues. ‘We spend most of our time training. It sounds like it will be great, learning how to fight, and there are times when I learn a new move and it feels amazing. But for the most part it’s pretty dull.’

  There’s no one in our room when we get there. Carl changes his shirt – there wasn’t anything wrong with the old one, he just wants to try something new – and we head to the front of the building, out on to a large terrace overlooking the river. Carl doesn’t stop to admire the view, but hurries down the stairs and along the path.

  ‘Are we going to the London Dungeon?’ I ask, spotting a sign for it.

  Carl gives me an odd look. ‘Isn’t the world grisly enough for you as it is?’

  ‘But the Dungeon’s fun,’ I laugh.

  ‘It used to be,’ he agrees. ‘Not so much now that there aren’t any actors to bring the place to life. We sometimes train down there, but we don’t really make use of it otherwise. It’s not a fun place to hang out.’

  ‘Do the rides still work?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes,’ he says.

  ‘Come on. Let’s try them.’

  ‘Maybe later,’ he says, then heads for the old arcade centre. I could go and explore the Dungeon by myself, but I don’t want to be alone so, with a scowl, I follow him.

  Most of the video games in the arcade still seem to be operational, but although a handful of Angels are hanging around, nobody’s playing. That seems strange to me until I recall my advanced sense of hearing and the way bright lights hurt my eyes. I guess half an hour on a video game in my current state would be about as much fun as sticking my hand into a food blender.

  Our lot are bowling. They have the lanes to themselves. Jakob is taking his turn as we approach. He knocks down the four standing pins and gets a spare.

  ‘Nice one,’ Shane says.

  Jakob only shrugs. I’ve never seen anyone who looks as miserable as this guy. I wonder what it would take to make him smile.

  ‘How did the test go?’ Ashtat asks as we slip in beside her.

  ‘I aced it. Master Zhang said I was the best student he’d ever seen.’

  ‘Sure,’ she drawls. ‘I bet he got down on his knees and worshipped you.’

  We grin at each other. We got off on the wrong foot, but I’m starting to warm to the Muslim girl, which is something I never thought I’d hear myself admit.

  Shane hits the gutter and swears.

  ‘You’re lucky Master Zhang wasn’t here to see that,’ Carl tuts.

  ‘Why?’ I ask. ‘Don’t tell me he’s a master bowler too.’

  ‘It’s part of our training,’ Shane sighs, waiting for his ball to return. ‘He says bowling is good for concentration. Our eyes aren’t as sharp as they were, and no amount of drops will ever change that. We have to keep working on our hand to eye coordination.’

  ‘Eye to hand,’ Carl corrects him.

  ‘Whatever,’ Shane mutters and throws again. This time he knocks down seven pins but he’s not happy. He flexes his fingers and glares at them as if they’re to blame.

  Ashtat throws and gets a strike. Jakob steps up next, then pauses and offers me the ball.

  ‘Don’t you want to finish the game?’ I ask.

  ‘No,’ he whispers. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  I take the ball from him and test the holes. They’re too small for my fingers – I cast a quick glance at Jakob and note how unnaturally thin he is – so I put it back and find one that fits. I take aim, step up and let the ball rip.

  It shoots down the lane faster than I would have thought possible and smashes into the pins, sending them scattering in every direction. A few of them shatter and go flying across the adjacent lanes.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ I gasp, shocked and dismayed. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . .’

  I stop. The others are laughing. Even Jakob is smiling slightly. Shane high-fives the thin, bald kid, then slaps my back. ‘Don’t worry. That happens to most of us the first time.’

  ‘We’re stronger than we look,’ Ashtat says. ‘We have to learn to control our strength. That’s another of the reasons we practise here.’

  ‘You could have told me that before I threw,’ I say sourly.

  ‘It wouldn’t have been as funny then,’ Carl giggles.

  ‘No,’ I smile. ‘I guess it wouldn’t.’

  We move to another lane while Jakob clears up the mess and replaces the pins. It takes me a while to get the balance right – I throw the first few balls too softly, then hit the gutters when I lob more forcefully – but eventually I find my groove. It’s tricky to be accurate because of my weak eyesight, but I can compensate for that by throwing a bit harder than I did when alive.

  After a couple of games – I finish last the first time, but fourth in the next game, ahead of a disgusted Shane – we spill out of the arcade. Night has fallen and dark clouds drift across the sky. I suggest the Dungeon again, but the others say they want to go on the London Eye. I’m curious to see what the city looks like now from up high, so I don’t argue.

  We step into one of the pods and rise. I turn slowly as we ascend, taking in the three hundred and sixty degree view. As I’m turning, I spot an Angel sitting on the bench in the middle of a pod on the opposite side of the big wheel, staring solemnly out over the river.

  ‘What’s up with that guy?’ I ask.

  ‘He’s a lookout,’ Carl says. ‘There’s always an Angel on duty in the Eye, in touch with a guard inside County Hall, in case we get attacked by Mr Dowling and his mutant army. They use walkie-talki
es — mobile phones don’t work any more.’

  ‘I noticed that,’ I frown. ‘Any idea why not?’

  ‘It’s the end of the world,’ Carl says. ‘Lots of things don’t work.’

  ‘I know, but I thought mobiles would be all right, since they operate through satellites.’

  ‘You thought wrong,’ Carl sniffs. ‘That’s why we rely on the walkie-talkies. You’ll be posted to a pod once you settle in. We all have to take our turn, even the twins and those who don’t come on missions.’

  ‘Except for One-eyed Pete,’ Ashtat says.

  ‘Obviously,’ Carl replies.

  I whistle, impressed. ‘There’s really an Angel called One-eyed Pete?’

  Carl and Ashtat gaze at me serenely and I realise I’ve taken the bait, hook, line and sinker.

  ‘All right,’ I growl as they burst out laughing. ‘I’m an idiot. I admit it. Just throw me off this thing when we get to the top and have done with me.’

  We chat away as the pod glides upwards, admiring the view over County Hall, looking down on the roof and into the courtyards. I try to spot the room where the Groove Tubes are, but it’s hard to be sure.

  ‘I came up here a few times with my mum and dad when I was younger,’ I mumble, remembering happier days when the world wasn’t a nightmarish place.

  ‘What happened to them?’ Ashtat asks quietly.

  ‘I don’t know. I think Dad might have made it out. Mum . . .’ I shake my head, wondering again about her, hoping she’s alive, but not able to believe that she is. And Dad? Well, it’s kind of the opposite with him. I’m pretty sure he slipped away, but part of me hopes he didn’t, that he paid for what he made me do to Tyler. But I don’t want to feel that way. He’s my dad, and as much as I hate him for what he is – what he always was – I love him too.

  ‘How about the rest of you?’ I ask. ‘Did you all lose family?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ashtat says. ‘Parents, brothers, sisters . . .’

  ‘A girlfriend,’ Shane adds morosely.

  ‘A boyfriend,’ Carl sighs, then winks at a startled Shane. ‘Only joking.’

  ‘You’d better be,’ Shane huffs. ‘I’m not sharing a room with you if not.’

  Carl fakes a gasp. ‘Hark at the homophobe! Just for that, I’m going to convert. Come here, you big sap, and give me a kiss.’

  They wrestle and stumble around the pod, Carl laughing, Shane cursing. The rest of us look on wearily.

  ‘Boys never change, do they?’ I note.

  ‘Sadly, no,’ Ashtat murmurs. ‘They might have lost their carnal appetites, but that won’t stop them being bothersome little pests.’

  ‘Lost their . . .? Oh yeah, I forgot about that.’

  Apparently zombies can’t get down and dirty — none of the necessary equipment is in working order. Apart from snogging – which probably isn’t much fun with a dry tongue and cold lips – there’s not much we can do.

  Shane and Carl break apart. Both are grinning. Then Carl’s expression darkens as he recalls what we were talking about.

  ‘I went to the offices where my father used to work once I’d revitalised. I found him there. He’s a revived now. I thought about killing him but I didn’t dare, just in case anyone ever discovered a cure for them.’

  ‘You know that won’t happen,’ Ashtat says sympathetically.

  ‘Yeah, but still . . .’

  ‘Your dad might revitalise,’ I say, trying to cheer him up.

  Carl squints at me. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Well, we recovered our senses, so maybe he will too.’

  ‘He can’t,’ Carl says. ‘He wasn’t vaccinated.’

  ‘What?’ I frown.

  ‘Leave it.’ Ashtat stops Carl before he can continue. ‘Dr Oystein will explain it when he returns.’

  ‘I’m getting sick of hearing that,’ I growl. ‘What is he, the bloody keeper of all secrets? Are you afraid the world will go up in flames if you tell me something behind his back?’

  ‘It’s just simpler if he tells you,’ Ashtat says calmly. ‘He’s used to explaining. If we tried, we might confuse you.’

  ‘At least you admit that you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,’ I mutter, then cast an eye over Jakob who, as usual, is standing silently by the rest of us. ‘What about you, skeleton boy? Did zombies eat your nearest and dearest, or did they leave Ma and Pa Addams alone?’

  Jakob stares at me uncertainly, then gets the reference. ‘Oh. I see. I look like one of the Addams Family. Very funny.’

  ‘You bitch,’ Ashtat snarls.

  ‘What?’ I snap. ‘Aren’t we allowed to have a go at skinheads any more?’

  ‘You don’t think he shaved himself, do you?’ she asks.

  ‘Well, yeah, of course. I mean why else . . .?’

  I stop and wince. How dumb am I? Pale skin. Bald. Dark circles under his eyes. Skinny in an unhealthy way.

  ‘You’ve got cancer, haven’t you?’ I groan.

  ‘Yes,’ Jakob says softly. ‘It was terminal. I was close to the end. I had maybe a few weeks left to live. Then I was bitten. Now I’m going to be like this forever.’

  ‘Is the cancer still active?’ I ask. ‘Will it carry on eating you up?’

  ‘No,’ he sighs. ‘But it hasn’t gone away. It still hurts. I can ignore the pain and function normally when I focus, which is why I’m allowed to go on missions, but the rest of the time I feel weak, tired and disoriented. It’s why I often seem spaced out.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Really. I wouldn’t have had a go at you if I’d known.’

  He waves away my apology. ‘It doesn’t matter. Nothing that you said could hurt me. Nobody could. Not after . . .’

  He stops and I think he’s going to clam up again. But then he continues, his voice the barest of whispers, so that even with my sharp ears I have to strain to catch every word.

  ‘I’d come to London with my parents and younger sister. One last visit. Nobody phrased it that way but we all knew. Our final day out together. Mum and Dad took time off work, even though they couldn’t afford to — they were struggling to make ends meet, having spent so much on me over the last few years.

  ‘We got delayed on our way down, so we had to cut out some of the things we’d planned to do. In the end we went to Trafalgar Square first. I loved the lions, the fountains, looking up at the National Gallery.’

  I consider telling him what happened the last time I was in Trafalgar Square, but I don’t dare interrupt him in case he goes silent again.

  ‘We had lunch in the crypt in St Martin-in-the-Fields. I had a Scotch egg. I knew it would make me sick – my stomach couldn’t handle rich food – but I didn’t care. It was sort of my last supper. I wanted it to be special.’ He smiles fleetingly. ‘That’s how bad things get when you’re that close to death. A Scotch egg becomes something special.’

  Jakob retreats from the window and sits on the bench. Rests his hands on his knees and carries on talking. No one else makes a sound. If we could hold our breath – if we had breath to hold – we would.

  ‘I was one of the first to be attacked when zombies spilled into the crypt. In a way that was a mercy. I didn’t have to witness the madness and terror which must have surely followed.

  ‘I was still in the crypt when I regained my senses weeks later. I’d made a base there, along with dozens of others. I’d fashioned a cot out of a few of the corpses. I suppose it was a bed cum larder, as I’d eaten from them too. I know that because I was eating when I revitalised, digging my fingers into a skull, scraping out a few dry, tasteless scraps of brain.

  ‘It was my sister’s skull,’ he says, and the most horrible thing about it is that his tone doesn’t change. It’s like he’s telling us the time. ‘My mum and dad were there too. Well, in my dad’s case it was just his head. I couldn’t find his body. I did search for it but . . .’

  Jakob pauses, then decides to stop. He lowers his head and starts to massage his neck. Nobody says anything.
>
  Without discussing it, we spread out around the pod, giving Jakob some privacy. We stare at the river and the buildings, smoke rising into the air from a number of places, corpses strewn everywhere, abandoned boats and cars, paths and roads stained with blood, black in the dim night light.

  I think about asking Ashtat if I can borrow her cross. But I don’t. And it’s not because I don’t want to be a hypocrite and say a prayer to a God I barely believe in. It’s because I figure what’s the point in saying any prayers for this broken, bloodied city of the ungodly dead?

  SIXTEEN

  Carl wasn’t joking about training being boring. Over the next three days I perform the same routines over and over — swim (having carefully plugged up my nose and ears), work out in the gym and get thrown around the hollow conference room by the stone-faced Master Zhang.

  ‘It is important that you learn how to fall correctly,’ he says when I complain after being slammed down hard on the floorboards for the hundredth time. ‘In a fight, you will often be thrown or knocked over. If you can cushion your landing, you will be in a better position to carry on.’

  ‘How long will I have to do this?’ I grumble, rubbing my bruised shoulders. I’m beginning to wish he’d ruled me unfit for active service.

  ‘Until I am satisfied,’ he says and hurls me over his shoulder again.

  I’m keen to learn all sorts of cool moves, and disgusted by what I consider a waste of my time, so I leave the sessions with a face like thunder, but Ashtat tells me I have to be patient. They all had to endure this to begin with.

  ‘Master Zhang wants to turn you into a fighting machine,’ she explains. ‘That isn’t a simple task. You should be thankful he’s spending so much time on you, even if it is only to throw you around. If he didn’t consider you worthy, he would not be proceeding so diligently with you.’

  I know she’s right, but it’s hard to maintain my interest and temper. I was never the most patient of girls. Maybe that’s why I didn’t have a boyfriend — I couldn’t be bothered putting in all the time and effort required.

  If I’d come to Master Zhang when I was human, I doubt I’d have stuck with him more than a day. I definitely wouldn’t have made it past the second. But things are different now. It’s not like I have more attractive options. If I don’t play ball here, I can go off by myself, regress and become a shambling revived, or maybe hook up with Mr Dowling and his merry band of mutants. Hardly the sort of career prospects that young girls around the world dream about.