I, Zombie

by Al Ewing

  I, Zombie

  I let go, and time closes over me like the case for an old pair of spectacles. The moment passes, and I stumble for a couple of steps, feeling more meat slop out of my belly and back, more scraps on the floor. There's a hard thud as a hundred and fifty pounds of flesh that used to be a human being crashes onto the concrete.

  I walk gingerly around the stacked crates and have a look. His legs and arms are thrashing, his eyes rolled back in the sockets. His skull is cracked and bleeding. His fragile, fractured eggshell skull.

  And the tasty yolk within.

  And all of a sudden -

  - all of a sudden my head is pounding and there's a hot metal taste in my mouth and I don't have anything better to do than think about -

  brains!

  An Abaddon BooksTM Publication

  www.abaddonbooks.com

  abaddon@rebellion.co.uk

  First published in 2008 by Abaddon BooksTM, Rebellion Intellectual Property Limited, Riverside House, Osney Mead, Oxford OX2 0ES UK.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Editor: Jonathan Oliver

  Cover: Mark Harrison

  Design: Simon Parr & Luke Preece

  Editorial Assistant (eBooks): Jennifer-Anne Hill

  Marketing and PR: Keith Richardson

  Creative Director and CEO: Jason Kingsley

  Chief Technical Officer: Chris Kingsley

  Copyright © 2008 Rebellion. All rights reserved.

  Tomes of The DeadTM, Abaddon Books and Abaddon Books logo are trademarks owned or used exclusively by Rebellion Intellectual Property Limited. The trademarks have been registered or protection sought in all member states of the European Union and other countries around the world. All right reserved.

  ISBN (.epub format): 978-1-84997-017-4

  ISBN (.mobi format): 978-1-84997-039-6

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  I, ZOMBIE

  AL EWING

  PROLOGUE

  The Time of The Ghost Sun

  Sun sank over the western plain, down into the depths of Ghost Country.

  Ar-rah was he, man and hunter and son of no father, strange thoughts in his head, strange talk in his mouth. Father was in Ghost Country, under the earth. The country without light where only Ghost Sun shines.

  Sun sank, Sun died. Tonight was the light of Ghost Sun, bright white as bone, shining the land white-blue. The night of the Ghost Sun. Night of ghosts, night of strange thought.

  Alone of the tribe, Ar-rah hunted by the light of Ghost Sun.

  Father was laid down in Ghost Country before Mother bore Ar-rah. Mother-thought brought thought of eyes cold blue, sick in heavy shadow. Sadness in those eyes, beneath the ridge of bone that Ar-rah had run fingertips over when small. Sometimes those eyes lay inside him, and when he closed his own those eyes were there, secret eyes that looked into him and all his secrets. Ghost eyes. Mother was in Ghost Country too.

  No man had taught Ar-rah to hunt. Sons and fathers walked to the bush together, backs bent and stone teeth in hand, eyes sharp for the long-tooth, the killer. Fathers teaching sons, sons helping fathers, hunting together, dying together if long-tooth came upon them. It was the way.

  No shame in dying by long-tooth. Shame in dying by teeth of men, shame and weakness. Un-guh drove his stone tooth through Father's neck in the time before time when Ar-rah was not. Un-guh led. Un-guh was strong and Father was weak. Father challenged Un-guh anyway.

  Ar-rah understood. Mother was weak, sick. Even if she bore, Mother would be left behind, not to slow the tribe. Un-guh took dominion over Mother when he killed Father - Un-guh took responsibility. To fail in that would be the end of Un-guh. Who follows a leader who does not protect his own? Mother grew sick and died, but was never left, never abandoned.

  Ar-rah had seen fourteen winters, as his Father had when Father died. Ar-rah's thoughts were quick, under the ridge of bone that shaded his eyes. He understood. Father had been quick too, and brave for all his weakness. Father had bought his child's survival with blood.

  Even after Mother died, when fingers pointed at Ar-rah, strange and silent Ar-rah who hunted alone and took no mate - Un-guh took responsibility. Ar-rah was not left, though Un-guh never spoke to him. Un-guh had seen thirty winters, now, and was old and sick. He had days - illness would take him, or death by long-tooth or heavy-tread, for he still hunted with the tribe as a leader must.

  Or the stone tooth would take him in shame.

  Ar-rah had seen lips curling to bare teeth as Un-guh walked by. Hands holding cooking-stones grasping tighter, dull eyes under ridges of bone wanting to smash them down on the head of the old man as he shuffled past. But that was not the way.

  The next dawn, or the dawn after, there would be a challenge. Ar-rah should be the one to challenge, to plunge his stone tooth into the old man's heart, to take leadership of the tribe, to never be abandoned and left for the long-tooth. But Ar-rah wanted only the security of the fire to come back to, the security of the tribe to belong to. And more - Un-guh had given him protection. To kill Un-guh...

  Ar-rah searched for the concept in his mind, eyes squinting beneath the ridge of bone as he stooped lower, dragging fingertips over dusty ground.

  To kill Un-guh... would not be...

  It would not be right.

  Such a concept would take more thinking about, but Ar-rah felt sure. He would find another way.

  There was movement in the trees.

  Ar-rah started, looking left. For a moment he saw a face in the trees, blue-white and pale, like the light of the Ghost Sun itself, eyes hooded. A member of the tribe?

  No. There was nothing recognisable in that face. A ghost, then? Father, from Ghost Country, come under the light of Ghost Sun to watch and advise?

  Ar-rah blinked, once. The face was gone. The trees were still.

  Ar-rah reached up, instinctively rubbing his upper arms with his hands.

  He felt cold.

  Ar-rah hunted night-creatures, the things that walked and crawled and flew in darkness. A thrown stone tooth could find one of the black, shrieking flap-wings that nested in the caves, breaking bones and sending it down to the rock floor. Or a long sharpened pole of bamboo could be thrust down a burrow, impaling one of the dig-furs sleeping within. The meat was spare, but good - tender and nourishing. Along with the roots and berries gathered in the light, it made for good eating. Ar-rah was strong, if spare himself. There was no wasted flesh on his frame.

  Ar-rah had hunted the swift-legs, once. But he'd learned the hard way that the swift-legs could not be hunted alone. They were too fast for that. The swift-legs had to be chased by the weaker hunter into the arms of the stronger, caught and slit from throat to belly with stone tooth. Even then, it was easy to miss the catch, or be kicked with a hoof - perhaps maimed or killed. The meat of the swift-legs was rare, and wearing its skin was the sign of a superior hunter. Mostly, the tribe fed on smaller game or gathered roots and nuts.

  Ar-rah knew better than to hunt the swift-legs alone, even though they often grazed on the plains at night and there was no member of the tribe awake in those hours to see him fail. It was a waste of energy to run like a fool after the swift-legs, when there was easier and better game to be had. And yet Ar-rah found himself standing at the edge of a wide clearing, grass shining blue-white under the light of Ghost Sun, watching one of the swift-legs bending to graze. For a moment, Ar-rah allowed himself to think that the swift-legs was c
lose enough to catch - but no. As soon as he lumbered forward, the swift-legs would be at the opposite side of the clearing, hooves pounding the dirt as it vanished forever.

  Let it go. It could not be caught. It could not be reached.

  Ar-rah eyed the sharpened bamboo in his right hand. His thoughts were quick, coming one upon the other like water in a stream. He felt the eyes of the ghost-man he had seen earlier on his back. If he turned, he felt certain he would see the man's shadowed eyes under the blue-white, almost translucent jut of his forehead.

  He did not turn.

  Instead, he concentrated on the bamboo stake he used to catch dig-furs. It was long, but it would not cover the distance between him and the swift-legs. Perhaps if he stretched to his utmost, he could poke the creature in the side and set it running.

  He considered throwing it for a moment, but the bamboo was too light. Even sharpened as it was, it couldn't pierce the beast's hide without some weight behind it...

  Ar-rah felt the eyes of the ghost on him. He hefted his stone tooth in his palm, then reached down to quietly pull up a swathe of the long grass at his feet. The swift-legs heard the sound and bolted, running for the bushes. Ar-rah nodded to himself, grunted softly, and continued wrapping the grasses around the stone and the bamboo, binding them together.

  The thought was in his mind now.

  Ar-rah turned, studying the forest behind him. If the ghost had been there, it was gone now. He turned back to his labours. The grasses would have to be tightly bound, to keep the stone tooth on the end of the bamboo.

  Somewhere in the trees, there was a glimpse of bone-white flesh.

  Once the swift-legs had vanished, Ar-rah worked slowly, taking his time. When he stood again and lifted the bamboo, the stone tooth bound to the end made a pleasing heft in his hand. It felt right. Ar-rah turned, slowly stalking back the way he had come.

  It would be useless to wait here for the swift-legs - none would return to that grazing ground for at least another night, perhaps a night after that. But there were other clearings, other grazing grounds where the swift-legs knew they could feed undisturbed at night. Ar-rah knew the likely places.

  He couldn't help but smile. The whole idea was foolish - a stone tooth at the end of a stick, of all things - but he felt a surge of excitement despite that, a flush of pride that he, strange, silent Ar-rah, had thought of it. If it worked... if he could throw it hard enough to pierce the hide of the swift-legs...

  Everything would change.

  Everything.

  He shook his head, laughing at his own thoughts. It was the Ghost Sun putting these ideas into his head, the Ghost Sun with its strange light, bringing strange dreams and madness - and this was madness. This long stick with its stone tooth, against muscle and grace and speed. Beautiful madness, made solid by the blue-white light of the Ghost Sun, and the eyes of the ghost-brother who watched him.

  Ar-rah walked out into the next clearing. No swift-legs here. Perhaps it would be better to leave it until the next night. That would be time enough for his... his... his stone-tooth-on-a-long-stick.

  Ar-rah laughed like a boy.

  He laughed at the most complete novelty he had ever known, the wonderful novelty of naming something. Something that was his own, that he had made, created, invented from nothing but the thoughts in his mind and the light of the Ghost Sun. Stick-tooth? Thrown-tooth? Long-stick-with-tooth? Long -

  Long-tooth.

  Ar-rah froze, eyes narrowed.

  A dark, knotted shadow of liquid muscle and fur slinked into the blue-white light in front of him.

  Long-tooth.

  In the blue-white light, the monster was like a ghost itself, an ever-moving mass of grey and black stripes, a coiling river of flesh and killing power. The long fangs that gave it a name glittered as it padded closer, closer. The eyes...

  The eyes were green, blue-green under the Ghost Sun's light. Ar-rah took a step backward. He always thought the long-tooth's eyes would be red as blood. No man had ever seen those eyes and lived.

  This was the long-tooth, the killer, deadly spirit of muscle and speed, claw and cruelty and death. Ar-rah had called the swift-legs graceful, but their grace did not save them from this. The grace and speed of the long-tooth was infinitely greater and more profound, all the more beautiful and terrible because it was so deadly.

  Ar-rah could not look away. He could not run. He knew that if he ran, he would die - ripped and torn by those claws, his entrails spilled on the grass, blood black under that terrible, awful light. He knew why the ghost-brother was watching him through the trees, now. This was the night that he would die, head severed from body, innards crushed and burst between vicious jaws, his life and strength stolen to feed and build the infinite life and strength of the long-tooth. This was Ar-rah's ending.

  The long-tooth growled, sniffing the air. Scenting fear.

  Ar-rah's bowels voided, spilling down the backs of his legs. But he did not move.

  This was Death, then. This was the end of breath and warmth, the entry into Ghost Country. This was the end of love, the end of warm skin on skin and laughter. The end of splashing in streams, of feeling the Sun, the true living Sun on cheek and back, the end of all things good.

  Then let Death come.

  He would look it in the eye.

  Slowly, he raised his stick-and-tooth.

  One moment long-tooth was still. The next it was fluid lines of muscle and motion, arcing in the air, sharp claws and fangs and weight, leaping to the kill. Ar-rah smelled the breath of the long-tooth, deep and foul and stinking of meat and blood. It was to be the last scent in his nostrils, his final experience, this scent of death and meat.

  Ar-rah half-jumped, half-stumbled backwards. At the same time, he thrust the stick-with-tooth upwards at the monster on top of him. He felt claws swiping at his chest, smelt the hot raging hunger washing over his face. Then he felt the weight, the mass of the beast, pushing down on the pole in his hands.

  The long-tooth snarled and bit, thrashing in rage and pain. Ar-rah felt a sharp, stinging pain in his face and his vision went flat, one half dark. He felt something spilling down his cheek.

  Then the long-tooth stopped moving.

  Ar-rah sat on the cold grass, feeling the dead weight of the monster on top of him. After a time, he shifted, letting the long-tooth stopple sideways and scrambling out from underneath. He lifted a hand to his face, feeling the deep gash there, the hole where his left eye had been. Blood trickled down his belly from the claw-marks on his chest. The pain was coming now, in great, slow, throbbing pulses.

  And Ar-rah was alive.

  The stick-with-tooth was jutting from the monster's heart.

  Ar-rah stood, holding his palm to his missing eye, for what seemed a very long time. The marks on his chest were not deep, and the blood slowed, then stopped. But the gash on his face continued to trickle when he took his hand away. He would have to pack it with mud and grass, and soon. Even so, perhaps he would sicken, the flesh around his missing eye turning yellow, then green, giving off the stink of rot and corruption. Perhaps he would grow slowly weaker until he died. He had seen it happen often. It was rare for men to survive such wounds. It didn't seem to matter to Ar-rah.

  He stood and looked at the long-tooth.

  It was massive. Big as three men at full growth. The teeth were as long as his forearm. Ar-rah placed his palm on the monster's flank, feeling the fur, the muscle and sinew. Cooling in the night air.

  Soon it would be cold.

  There had been life there once - the essence of life, life and strength in all its great and terrible glory. More than men, who hunted and gathered and shivered and died in the winters, who needed fire and skins to survive, who banded together in tribes to hide their weakness. Men were half-alive, shadow-creatures who needed to walk and talk and make things simply to avoid being torn to shreds by creatures like this. Things that were truly alive. Truly real.

  Stood against the long-tooth, all men were gh
osts.

  Ar-rah watched a fly buzz and settle on the long-tooth's fur, then move to its eye. Staying to feed. The creatures needed to be skinned, the meat cooked and stored. The long teeth could be kept and used somehow, as weapons. He should get to work.

  He stood.

  He tried to recall how the long-tooth had moved.

  Where was that life now? That strength? Where was that slow, liquid majesty of movement?

  It was as though he had killed the wind and the rain. He had come face to face with something very like the Sun itself.

  And now flies were eating it.

  There was a flash of white from the trees. Ar-rah waited.

  His shoulders slumped as the ghost-brother stepped into the clearing. He did not even feel surprised. It seemed natural that the ghosts should be here, after this. He had ended a life - a life that possessed a power and magnitude he could barely comprehend. This was the death of awe and terror, fear and wonder. The death of everything Ar-rah knew.

  Of course the ghosts would mark the passing.

  The ghost-brother walked slowly, eyes lost under bone, skin the colour of the ghost light that shone from the Ghost Sun above. Ar-rah's remaining eye was sad and wet as he turned to look back. He was suddenly very tired.

  The ghost-brother grunted and nodded to the dead long-tooth, and the shaft of bamboo jutting from its chest. It was an acknowledgement. This was the first time such a thing had happened.

  Ar-rah knew he should feel something. Pride, perhaps? Shame? Instead he simply stood, allowing the ghost-brother to place one strong hand on his bony forehead, the other at his neck. A ritual gesture, a ghost ceremony. His reward for killing the world.

  Ar-rah felt nothing, even when the ghost-brother tore the head from his body in one impossibly strong, savage motion, blood spattering the grass and the corpse of the long-tooth.

  The body took a couple of steps backward, gushing from the neck, and collapsed in a heap. Under the light of the Ghost Sun, the blood was jet black. The ghost-brother said nothing.