by Darren Shan
He doesn’t react.
I wrap my hands round his throat and throttle him, knowing I can’t kill him that way, but wanting to hurt him, to make him cry out, to see pain and fear in his eyes.
He only stares at me miserably.
‘Say something, you bastard,’ I groan, shaking his shoulders.
He spits blood from his lips and croaks, ‘I cannot.’
‘Tell me why you did it.’
‘Not here,’ he says. ‘Not now.’
‘I’ll kill you,’ I growl.
‘No one will blame you if you do,’ he replies calmly. ‘Not once you show them the evidence against me. They will probably hail you as a hero.’
‘You destroyed the world,’ I cry.
‘Yes,’ he says and his face crumples. I don’t see any of the things in his expression that I expected, such as joy, pride, malice. Only misery and grief.
I let go of the defenceless doctor and push myself away.
‘B . . .’ he says, sitting up.
Before he can say anything else, I put all of my returning energy into my right foot and kick the side of his head as hard as I can. He slumps sideways, not unconscious, but stunned. It will take him a few minutes to recover.
I bend over the gasping doctor and rifle through his pockets. I find the pair of syringes that he mentioned and relieve him of them. I think about stabbing them through his eyes, one for each eyeball. If I stuck them through the sockets and deep into his brain, I could finish him off.
But how can I kill this man who has done so much for me? He rescued me when I was at my lowest. He took me in and showered me with love. He was like my father, only better. I owe so much to Dr Oystein, more than I ever owed to anyone. He guided me, taught me how to put my darker ways behind me, helped me become who I am. If I’m furious and contemptuous now, it’s only because he told me to expect more of people. I hate him so savagely only because I love him so dearly.
It’s not for the likes of me to pass judgement on a man like Oystein Dowling. So I take the only option open to a desperate creature in my bewildering predicament. I leave the doc moaning and writhing on the floor. I hurry to the stairs, clutching the syringes tightly. And I run.
FOURTEEN
I wouldn’t have made it to the top of the first set of stairs several minutes ago, but juiced up with Dr Oystein’s concoction, the steps no longer present a major problem. I lurch up them, growing in strength all the time. I’m still in bad shape, and I sting and ache all over, but coming off the back of my recent lows, I feel like I’ve been given bionic implants.
I make it to the roof and pause to assess my options. I can hear the Angels out front, murmuring softly, calmly, with no idea yet what has happened inside.
I race along the roof and climb down a drainpipe into the yard at the rear of the building. I hurry across, let myself out of the yard and jog down a long road, then start zigzagging my way south-east, hoping to lose myself in the maze of streets.
I didn’t think I’d be fleeing for my life again this soon, or that I’d be running from Dr Oystein and his Angels. Amazing how the world can turn on its head so suddenly.
I silently curse myself as I run, for not killing Dr Oystein. It was crazy, letting him live. But I know I’d do the same thing if the chance presented itself again. I love him too much to take his life, even after hearing his most heinous confession.
There’s also the crazy hope that there was a good reason for what he did. If I’d heard him out, maybe he could have explained it in a way that made sense.
At the same time, that possibility was why I ran. I was afraid he’d convince me that the slaughter of billions could be justified. I know in my (missing) heart of hearts that there can be no excuse for unleashing the zombie virus, but I think he could have provided one regardless. If he had, and I’d bought his story, I might have forgiven him and carried on working with him.
That would have made me as guilty as he is, and I don’t want such a stain on my conscience. Some things in this world should be unacceptable no matter what. Sometimes you shouldn’t allow people to grey your vision, to make you stop seeing an atrocity in simple black and white terms.
I remember discussing the Holocaust once with Vinyl and a few of my other mates. I told them my dad had said that the number of victims had been vastly exaggerated, that certain groups wanted to make it seem worse than it was, in order to squeeze extra sympathy out of people worldwide. According to him, only a few hundred thousand Jews had been killed, and in concentration camps, not death camps.
Vinyl stood up at that point and snarled at me. He said he had a simple policy when it came to Holocaust deniers. As soon as they started spouting crap, no matter how reasonable it might sound, he walked away, because some things were never worth listening to. And off he stormed. The rest of the gang followed him or went home, heads low and unusually silent, leaving me to glower at the pavement by myself.
I felt very small that day, angry at Vinyl for humiliating me, but also angry at myself for being willing to believe my dad’s distortions of the truth. I knew Vinyl was right, and I know he’d act the same way today if he was still here. He’s not, but I can at least do his memory justice. It’s not much of a comfort, but I’m sure my old friend would be proud of me if he could see the way I cut Dr Oystein off before he could start spinning his seductive lies.
Yeah — but he’d have been prouder if I’d rammed the steel-tipped end of one of Timothy’s paintbrushes through the old goat’s skull!
I allow myself a wry chuckle at the thought of bringing Dr Oystein down with such an unlikely weapon. Then I hear the sound of footsteps and I fall silent and listen.
The runners aren’t making a lot of noise, but in a city of the dead it’s just about impossible to mask the echoes of dozens of feet slapping on the pavement. There are lots of people tearing after me, and I’m certain they’re Angels.
Master Zhang will be furious when he finds out how his students reacted. They should have come in smaller gangs and padded softly, sacrificing speed for stealth. I wouldn’t want to be in their shoes when they report back to him. Unless of course they capture me. Nobody will care then.
I’m surrounded by houses. Many of their doors are ajar, either left that way by their owners when they fled, or forced open by zombies. I slip into one of the deserted shells, not touching the door, and position myself in the shadows of a room with a window overlooking the street.
The Angels come tearing past. They’re in a pack, hunting like dogs. No sign of Dr Oystein, which makes me suspect he’s led another group in a different direction. I figure they probably split into four teams, maybe more. They’ll want to cover the main routes out, north, south, east and west.
If I’m right about that, their apparent clumsiness begins to make sense. As bright as I feel, it’s only relative to how poorly I felt before. I’m nowhere near as strong or fast as the other Angels. I only have a few minutes’ head start on them, so they know I can’t have gone far.
My colleagues aren’t racing after me in a disorganised rush, as I first assumed. They’re running to get ahead of me. When they’re sure they’ve outpaced me, they’ll stop, break into smaller groups and track back, examining every street and alley, every building and house.
There won’t be enough of them to cast an impenetrable net across the area, but it will be hard to slip through. Clever sods. Strangely, I’m proud of them, pleased to see they haven’t lost their heads when the heat is on, even though I’m the scared rabbit that they’re hunting.
I’ve got two choices. I can find somewhere to hide and hope they don’t root me out. Or I can try to sneak through the closing web of Angels undetected.
In a city like London, there are more hiding places than a person could count. There’s no way the Angels can check everywhere. It wouldn’t be a sign of cowardice if I laid low, just a mark of common sense.
But then I’d be like Anne Frank and others who hid during the Second World War. It worke
d for some of them and they evaded capture, but it must have been horrible, holed up in the gloom, knowing they were doomed if their enemies found them, flinching at every unexpected sound or movement. I don’t want to saddle myself with the fear, the tension, the paranoia every time a rat scuttles past.
Also, my newly regained strength won’t last. I feel reasonably fine now, but I won’t in a few hours. Even if I inject myself with the other syringes, I’ll only buy myself half a day, maybe a day at best, and I’m sure the Angels won’t abandon the search that swiftly.
Flight is my preferred option. If I’m going down, I want to go down fighting, in the open, not cornered and helpless. It would make sense to slip into the sewers and try to lose them in the dark, but I’ve spent enough time underground. I’m sick of the tunnels and bunkers. I belong up here, in the land of day and night.
I step out of the shadows, a devil-may-care smirk on my face. I stride back through the doorway and out on to the road. I continue the way I was headed. And inside my head I issue a challenge to the big, bad world — ‘Come get me, suckers!’
FIFTEEN
I cross Whitechapel Road and continue south-east, looking to hit Limehouse at some point. I did think about reversing direction and heading west, since Dr Oystein’s new base is situated in the East End, but they might anticipate that. In their position I’d focus the majority of my forces north and west, the areas where a fugitive would be most likely to run.
Of course, they might have anticipated my anticipation and sought to second-guess me, but I’m not going to drive myself crazy by thinking like that!
I go slower than previously, listening, watching. Cunning will serve me better than speed right now. It’s a game of cat and mouse, and since I can’t outrun my hunters, I need to outsmart them.
I keep to the inner sides of paths, ready to duck into a building if I catch sight of any Angels. But the streets seem to be deserted. The zombies are resting in the shade, while the living abandoned their claim to the pavements long ago.
I spot movement ahead and throw myself through the broken window of a coffee shop. I look for weapons, but there’s not much that will be of any use in a fight. In the end I grab a couple of long spoons. If I can’t stab, at least I can gouge.
I position myself close to the door, figuring it will be better to strike as they enter, rather than wait in the back for them to come find me. I hold the spoons loosely, biding my time.
There are shuffling sounds outside and I prepare for battle.
Then a zombie stumbles into view and I relax. It’s an old woman, green moss growing thickly across her collarbone, where she was bitten when alive. One of her eyes has been torn out. It looks like a relatively fresh wound. She’s moaning softly. I can tell she’s hungry, in even more pain than most of her kind. Desperate for the brains which will ease her suffering. Willing to brave the discomfort of the daylight world in order to search for scraps that the faster, sharper zombies might have missed during their night manoeuvres.
The zombie turns her eye on me, determines I’m no good to her and pushes on. I feel sorry for the old biddy, but there are millions more in her lousy position, and there’s nothing I can do for her.
Then I have an idea and step out after the woman. I thought when I first saw her that she was an Angel. So there’s a good chance that if any Angels catch sight of her, they might think she’s me. Some of them will probably have stationed themselves in houses, keeping watch, hoping I’ll pass by. The zombie might lure them out, or distract others who are on the street. I can use her as a diversion, follow at a distance, duck for cover if I spy anyone darting towards her.
I wait for the pitiful old lady to get a good way ahead of me, then trail after her, matching her sluggish pace, letting her act as my unwitting decoy. As long as she keeps going in the direction that I want, she’ll be a good addition to the team.
We inch along, an unlikely partnership. I cover as many angles as I can, looking behind, left, right, my head snapping around like an agitated bird’s.
A shadow passes overhead. I look up immediately but there’s nothing there. Lots of small clouds are scattered across the sky. I guess the shadow must have been one of those, though it seemed to scud by too swiftly for a cloud.
The old woman pauses to pick through some overturned bins in the middle of the road. I don’t know what she expects to find. I’m annoyed by the delay, and think about cutting her loose and going my own way again. I keep glancing up, unsettled, not convinced that the shadow was a cloud, but telling myself that I’m just being paranoid. This is the reason I didn’t want to hole up. When your brain gets spooked, you start to see trouble everywhere.
Eventually the zombie abandons the bins and pads onwards. She rounds a corner. I shuffle after her, but before I can turn into the new road, someone leaps from the roof of the building and lands in front of me. I’m still holding the spoons from the coffee shop. I raise them defensively . . . then lower them when the guy straightens up and faces me.
He’s a good-looking teenage boy with dark hair and fashionable, trendy clothes. He’s usually a cheerful sort, but his face is clouded with anger now.
‘You are in so much trouble,’ Carl Clay growls.
‘Tell me about it,’ I sniff. ‘Are the others with you?’
‘Of course.’ He whistles, and Shane and Ashtat step out of a hairdresser’s. The ginger Shane is in his customary tracksuit, tacky gold chains dangling from his neck. Ashtat is wearing a blue robe and a golden headscarf.
I thought my injuries would provoke a reaction, but Dr Oystein must have told them about my sorry state because they barely spare my horror show of a body a second glance. They both look as pissed off as Carl, too angry to bother with sympathy or concern.
‘It’s like a class reunion,’ I chuckle as my ex-roommates from County Hall gather in front of me. ‘A pity Jakob is missing. That would have made a full set.’
‘Rage too,’ Shane says.
‘Nah,’ I grunt. ‘He was never one of us. Not really.’
The Angels eyeball me and I return their gaze silently.
‘You must be out of your mind,’ Carl finally hisses. ‘Assaulting the doc? Taking off like a bat out of hell?’
I shrug. ‘What did he tell you?’
‘That you were upset,’ Ashtat says icily. ‘He said you were not yourself, that it was imperative we find you, but we should not hurt you unless we had absolutely no other option. We were not to approach you, but to send for him, so that he could confront you personally.’
‘Sly old Dr Oystein,’ I sneer. ‘He wanted me all to himself. No surprise there.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Carl frowns.
I shake my head. ‘It doesn’t matter. Have you sent word to him?’
‘No,’ Ashtat says. ‘We want you to come freely. We do not know why you struck Dr Oystein, but if you surrender willingly, we are sure this can be worked out.’
‘We were over the moon when we found out you were alive,’ Shane says. ‘We don’t want to lose you now.’
‘We’re sure it’s not your fault,’ Carl snorts. ‘Mr Dowling must have messed with your mind when he was slicing up your body. The doc will be able to help you get your head back in order. He’ll clear up everything if you give him a chance.’
‘You don’t have a clue,’ I huff. ‘I’ve been through hell since you last saw me, but that had nothing to do with why I attacked Dr Oystein. He’s not what he seems. He’s been playing us for fools. He –’
‘It’s all right,’ Carl says soothingly. ‘He told us you’d say stuff like this. The clown has turned you against us, so you think we’re the enemy. That’s OK. The doc will set your brain straight again. But you have to come with us, B. We can take you by force if necessary, but we’d rather not.’
‘You need to trust us,’ Ashtat says. ‘We are your friends. We care about you. We want to help.’
‘I know you do,’ I mutter sadly. ‘But you don’t have all the fac
ts. There’s nothing wrong with my brain. I unearthed a secret while I was waiting for the doc. It changed everything. Give me five minutes and I can explain it all. Then I’ll show you the proof, if the doc hasn’t already disposed of it. Five minutes isn’t too much to ask, is it, after all that we’ve been through together?’
The three Angels look at one another, considering my request.
‘No,’ Ashtat sighs. ‘There is nothing to discuss. We will not let you level false accusations against Dr Oystein.’
‘You don’t know what you’re saying, B,’ Carl says sympathetically. ‘You’d be wasting your time, trying to make us believe your lies.’
‘Give it up,’ Shane grunts. ‘There are four of us to one of you. You don’t stand a chance.’
‘You never were good at maths, numbnuts,’ I sneer. ‘There’s only three of you.’
‘Four,’ someone with an American accent says softly behind me.
I whirl and spot a ghost from my past.
‘Barnes?’ I cry.
The ex-soldier and one-time hunter of zombies looks grim. He’s dressed in dark clothes, a rifle strapped across his back, a handgun in a holster dangling from his left hip. There are more streaks of grey in his black hair than I remember. He’s still got a bullet jammed behind his right ear. He’s pointing a taser at me and is packing a couple of spares in his other hand.
‘Hello again, Becky Smith,’ Barnes says solemnly.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ I gasp, wondering if I’m imagining things in my addled state.
‘I’ve been back in London a while now,’ Barnes says quietly. ‘I turned up at County Hall not long after you’d left, to offer my services to Dr Oystein.’
‘Barnes was the one who led us to you,’ Shane says admiringly. ‘He guessed your most likely route and brought us with him to intercept you. He told us how to search for you.’