by Darren Shan
‘Too late,’ I mutter. ‘You missed that boat years ago.’
Burke laughs out loud then leans forward. ‘How have you been, B? I haven’t seen much of you since you returned.’
It’s my turn to shrug. ‘Fine. I’ve settled in. Learning lots. Training hard. Doing my bit for the cause.’
‘Have you been on a mission yet?’
‘Only scouting or training missions close to County Hall.’
The Angels do a lot of routine scouting, searching the streets and buildings of London for survivors—if we find any, we offer them a safe home at County Hall. We’re also on the lookout for Mr Dowling and his mutants, as well as any human soldiers who might be on patrol. And, of course, we hunt for brains. We need regular supplies if we’re to stay in control of our senses. Certain Angels do nothing except scour hospitals, schools and public buildings in search of corpses whose skulls they can scrape clean of brains to bring back for the pot, but all of us are expected to pitch in to some extent. One of the less exciting chores which everyone has to share.
I like getting out of County Hall when we go scouting, but it’s an unpleasant sensation at the same time because we never know what we’re going to run into, if Mr Dowling or his mutants will pop up, or if human hunters will set their sights on us. I crossed swords with some of them before I found my way here, the American Barnes and his buddies. There are others, bored survivors who pass the time by notching up kills. Not that they consider it killing. I mean, zombies are already dead, so it’s no big deal to them.
The others in my group have been on more serious missions, where they’ve escorted humans out of London, or gone into dangerous areas with orders to carry out specific tasks. But Rage and I haven’t been allowed on any of those yet.
‘What about in your down time?’ Burke asks.
I nod at the book. ‘I’ve been making up for all those years when I never read anything other than porn stories online.’
Burke blinks. ‘You’re joking, aren’t you?’
‘Nothing wrong with a bit of sauce,’ I smirk.
‘Only if you’re an appropriate age,’ Burke huffs.
‘Don’t get all grown-up on me,’ I snap. ‘I had unlimited access to the internet from the age of ten or eleven. You think I wasn’t curious? You think anyone my age didn’t have a look to see what all the fuss was about? It wasn’t like when you were a kid. The world was our oyster. We could find out about anything.’
‘I suppose,’ he sighs, then smiles again. ‘The world was our oyster. You never used a phrase like that in the old days. All that reading must be rubbing off on you.’
‘Of course it is. I’m not thick.’
‘No,’ Burke agrees. ‘And never were. Even when you acted it.’
Burke picks up the book and looks at it closely again. He’s obviously come to discuss something with me. I’ve an idea what it is but I don’t say anything. I’m not going to make things easy for him. That’s not my style.
‘I don’t want this to come out the wrong way,’ Burke says hesitantly. ‘And I’d hate to be classed as a teacher who ever discouraged reading. But are you maybe spending a bit too much time here on your own with your head stuck in a book?’
‘No,’ I answer shortly.
Burke chuckles, then sets the book aside and gets serious. ‘What’s wrong, B?’
‘Nothing. I’m peachy.’
‘No. You’re not. Dr Oystein noticed and brought it to my attention.’
‘Noticed what?’
‘You returned to the fold after that incident with the baby,’ Burke says, ‘but you haven’t made any effort to fit in with the other Angels. You don’t socialise or hang out with your room-mates.’
‘Maybe I don’t like them,’ I sniff.
‘I doubt that’s the case,’ he says. ‘If it was, you could simply ask to move in with a different group.’
‘I thought that wasn’t allowed. Dr Oystein tells us where to bed down.’
‘When you first come here, yes. But if Ashtat and the others are still getting on your nerves after this much time, he’ll be happy to let you switch. But they’re not the problem, are they?’
‘Rage is a pain,’ I mutter.
‘You don’t get on with him?’
‘I don’t trust him. Never have, never will.’
‘But the others?’ Burke presses.
I shrug stiffly.
‘If you tell me what’s troubling you, I might be able to help,’ he says kindly. ‘A problem is never as bad as it seems if you share it with a friend.’
‘But I don’t need a friend,’ I mumble. ‘I don’t want one. I don’t mind working with the Angels, but I don’t want to make friends with them.’
‘Why not?’ Burke asks, surprised.
‘I’d rather be alone,’ I say quietly.
Burke frowns, trying to make sense of me.
‘It’s not that complicated,’ I snicker.
‘It is to me,’ Burke says. ‘I’d have thought that someone in your position would give anything to find a friend.’
‘What’s so bad about my position?’ I bark.
‘Well, you’re undead,’ he says. ‘Living people want nothing to do with you. Regular zombies have no interest in you either. There aren’t many people left who could ever be tempted to give a damn about you. If you spurn the advances of the Angels, you’re unlikely to find a friend anywhere else.’
‘But I just told you I don’t want any friends,’ I remind him.
‘You must,’ Burke insists. ‘You can’t want to be all alone in the world.’
‘I bloody well do,’ I snort.
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s simpler that way.’ I reconsider my words and try again. ‘Because it’s safer.’ I look down at my hands, at the bones sticking out of my fingers, remembering the blood that has stained them. ‘You weren’t there in the school when the zombies attacked. You were off sick that day. You didn’t see us as we raced for freedom. You didn’t see so many of my friends die, Suze and Copper and Linzer and . . .
‘You weren’t there when Mr Dowling invaded the underground complex either. You didn’t see the zom heads tear into Mark or hear their death screams when Josh caught up with them. You didn’t smell their burning flesh in the air.
‘You weren’t with me when all those people were killed in Trafalgar Square. Or when Sister Clare and her supporters marched into the belly of Liverpool Street Station. Or when Timothy was butchered.’
‘I’ve seen terrible things too,’ Burke says sadly.
‘I’m sure you have. But I’ve only seen terrible things since I regained my mind. I’ve found death everywhere I’ve turned, or death has found me. I’m not saying I’m a jinx—I don’t think I’m that important. But this is death’s world now and I’ve run into the Grim Reaper every time I’ve turned a corner or paused for breath. Well, not actual breath, obviously, but you get the picture.’
I meet Burke’s gaze at last. ‘Pretty much everyone I’ve known and cared about has died or been taken from me. I’m sick of it. I don’t want to endure the pain again. The Angels will be killed, I’m sure of it. Dr Oystein will get ambushed by Mr Dowling and his mutants. You’ll be turned or slaughtered. It will all go tits up somewhere along the line.
‘I don’t want to feel anything when that happens. I don’t want to lose friends or loved ones. I want to be able to get on with things and find somewhere else to hole up until death swings by again. I’d rather be a loner than feel lonely.’
Burke’s eyes fill with pity. ‘B . . .’ he croaks.
‘Don’t,’ I stop him. ‘You came for answers and I’ve given them to you. Now leave me alone. It’s all I ask of you. It’s all I ask of anyone.’
Then I pick up the book, open it and stare at the words until Burke gets up and silently slips away, leaving me by myself. Not the way I like it really. Just the way it has to be if I’m not going to go crazy and lose myself to grief and madness in this harsh, unforgiving abat
toir of a world.
Getting ready to head out on another scouting mission. I was hoping Master Zhang would give us something meatier to deal with, but no, it’s just another sweep of the area, this time around Covent Garden. There are lots of streets set back from the market, crammed with flats. We’ve been through there before, but repetition is nothing new.
We don’t take any weapons when we head out, but we dress in heavy clothes and gloves to protect our skin from the sun. We also slap on loads of suntan lotion. Our clothes have been individually prepared for us, holes cut away to reveal our wounds and the wisps of green moss which signify to other zombies that we’re undead like them.
I study the hole in my chest as I twist my jacket round. I’ve got so used to it that I can’t really remember what it was like before. I hated being one tit short of a full set to begin with. Now I couldn’t give a toss.
‘I have said it before but I will say it again,’ someone murmurs behind me. ‘You are a most remarkable example of a zombie, Becky Smith.’
I turn, smiling, to face Dr Oystein. The doc never changes much. He favours a light grey suit, neatly ironed white shirt and a snazzy tie. His thin brown hair is shot through with grey streaks and carefully combed. His deep brown eyes are as calm and warm as always.
‘I bet you say that to all the girls,’ I chuckle.
‘Only you,’ he vows, then reaches out to adjust my coat around the hole where my heart used to be. ‘There. Perfect.’ He cocks his head to examine my face.
‘Burke told you what I said, didn’t he?’ I pout.
‘Of course. If it is any help, I understand. You are not the first to stand alone, to avoid the complications of company. I went through such a spell myself. It lasted several years. I figured, if I could train myself to feel nothing for anyone, I could never be hurt again, the way I was hurt when my family was so savagely taken from me.’
‘How’d you get on with that?’ I ask.
‘Fine,’ he says. ‘I found it surprisingly easy to sever all emotional ties and distance myself from those I worked with.’
‘Then why did you start caring again?’ I frown.
‘Instinct compels many reviveds to stay with those they knew in life,’ Dr Oystein replies. ‘But I do not think they truly care about those people. They have lost their souls, so they have no reason to give a damn. After a time, I realised I was behaving the same way as a revived. I came to think that God would not have restored my senses only for me to act as if I was still an unfeeling beast.
‘Life was wonderful when we were alive,’ the doc continues. ‘We could love, procreate, bond. The downside was that we could be hurt too. But we endured the pain because the joy was so intense.
‘I won’t pretend that nothing has changed. We cannot love the way we once did. Everything now is a resemblance. But even a vague, loving forgery is better than experiencing only the emptiness of the damned.’
‘I’m not sure I agree with you,’ I say solemnly. ‘It’d be different if I didn’t expect to lose some of you guys any time soon. But if I was to place a bet, I wouldn’t give any of you more than six months, a year tops.’
‘Even though I have survived more than a hundred years already?’ he asks.
‘Things were different then. The world made sense. It worked. Now it’s just death, destruction and loss. We’re all for the chop, and I don’t want to care when you, Burke or anyone else gets ripped away from us.’
‘What about our response if you are taken?’ the doctor asks quietly. ‘Will you care if nobody mourns your loss, if we wipe you from our thoughts and carry on as if nothing has happened?’
‘Not in the least,’ I say chirpily. ‘When I go, I’m gone. Makes no difference to me whether you lot celebrate or wail for a week.’
Dr Oystein nods glumly. ‘As you wish. Like I said, I do understand. If you do not seek friendship, we will not force it on you. No Angel needs to care for their colleagues in order to slot in with them.
‘But I do care, B, and I will continue to. Billy Burke cares about you too, and quite a few more. If you ever change your mind and crave a friend, we will be here for you. Always.’
‘Unless you’re killed before me,’ I note.
‘Touché,’ he smiles. Then, smile fading, he reaches out and touches my cheek, briefly but lovingly. ‘Be careful out there, B. Come home safely to us.’
He turns and leaves. I want to call him back and accept his offer of friendship, drop my guard, have at least one person in the world that I can feel close to.
But I don’t.
I can’t.
I won’t.
I remember my friends from school. My parents. Mark. Timothy. The pain I felt at their loss. And I make a vow to myself, not for the first time since I returned to County Hall.
Never again.
We patrol the streets, entering every building we come to, checking it thoroughly. Zombies are in many of them, sheltering from the sun. We gently edge past the resting reviveds and head up flights of stairs, exploring the upper levels, looking for attics or locked doors.
We haven’t found any survivors while I’ve been with the Angels, but lots of humans were rescued before I joined, and a few have been unearthed by other search squads since. They’ve had to be cunning to survive so long in a city where death is almost a certainty.
Reviveds rely heavily on their sense of smell and hearing. To outwit them, the people with the smarts douse themselves in perfume or aftershave – those smells mean nothing to a zombie, they only react to natural human scents – and wear soft shoes or slippers. The really sly ones also wrap bandages round their stomach and chest to dull the sounds of their heartbeat and digestive system, shave off their hair so they don’t sweat as much and take other inventive, anti-detection measures.
The gutsier survivalists realised that once a zombie has given a building a once-over, it usually doesn’t check again, unless it was accustomed to double-checking spaces when it was alive, for instance if it was a security guard. So some of the humans have made their bases in buildings which zombies frequent, the reasoning being that they’re the safest places in London, since the inhabitants won’t scour their own lair. Also, other reviveds recognise and respect a fellow zombie’s home, and they almost never trespass. We’re not sure why, it’s just the way they’re wired.
Angels on earlier missions to find survivors never bothered to check a building that was home to a nest of reviveds. Now, having been clued in by those we’ve rescued, we’re more thorough.
‘Oh what fun,’ Rage grumbles as we exit another block of flats with nothing to show for the time spent panning around inside.
‘Patience is a virtue,’ Ashtat says.
‘What’s so special about the living anyway?’ Rage sniffs. ‘Why should we care about them? If they find their way to County Hall, fair enough, it would be rude not to let them in. But we could be tracking down mutants, turning the tables on hunters, kicking Mr Dowling’s arse. This is a waste of our time.’
‘Yeah,’ Shane says, backing up his buddy as he normally does.
‘Don’t act like an infant,’ Carl snaps. ‘We’re fighting this war for the sake of those who are still alive.’
‘Sure,’ Rage says, ‘but there are millions in camps or on islands dotted around the world. What does it matter if we rustle up a few more? It’s not going to make a difference.’
‘It will to those we rescue,’ Ashtat says.
‘Well, duh!’ Rage snorts. ‘I’m talking about the bigger picture. That’s what we’re supposed to be looking at, right? The doc told us that the minor battles being fought across the globe are meaningless. The fight here, between us and the clown’s forces, is the only real game in town. So why aren’t we focusing on that? We should be too busy to play at being Good Samaritans.’
Shane nods fiercely. ‘What he said.’
Ashtat and Carl scowl at Rage and Shane, but don’t come back with an argument because they can’t think of one. I’m not both
ered. It doesn’t matter to me. I just do what I’m told and try not to think too much. That should be the end of the debate, a win for Rage, but then, breaking his usual moody silence, Jakob speaks up.
‘I think it’s to remind us that we were once human.’
We stare at the thin, pale boy. He doesn’t speak very often. It’s easy to think of him as a mute.
‘I forget sometimes,’ he says softly. ‘I find it hard to recall my life before this. It seems like I’ve been an undead creature for as long as I can remember.’
‘So what?’ Rage asks when Jakob falls silent again.
‘When I feel distant from my humanity,’ Jakob whispers, ‘I think about linking up with Mr Dowling and his mutants. From all the reports, they have a grand time, going wherever they like, killing as they please, not caring about anyone except themselves. It must be liberating to be that brutal. The world has fallen. The walking dead have taken over. We don’t neatly fit into one camp or the other. Why not throw in our lot with the clown and his crew, kill off the remaining humans and enjoy the party for the next few thousand years?’
‘Blimey,’ Rage laughs. ‘And I thought I had a dark side.’
Jakob shrugs, wincing at the pain that brings to his battered, cancer-ridden body. ‘That’s just the way my mind wanders. Am I the only one who has thought such things?’
He looks around and everyone drops their gaze, except for Rage, who nods enthusiastically.
‘Dr Oystein sees through us,’ Jakob says. ‘He knows all that we imagine. He can’t rely on our unwavering support, because any one of us could give into desperation and temptation, and change sides.
‘I think the searching, the rescues and escorting survivors to safe havens outside London are to keep us in contact with the memories of what it was like to be alive. Because if we lose those, or if they come to mean nothing to us, what’s to hold us in place? Why should we bother to stay loyal?’
There’s a long silence as we think about that. Jakob might not say much, but when he does speak, he tends to have something worth saying.
‘Is that why you’ve been so distant recently?’ Rage asks me. ‘Are you thinking about stabbing us in the back and heading over Mr Dowling’s way?’