“No,” Dan-Dan says. “That ugly beast doesn’t concern me in the slightest. Do what you want with him.”
I think the glowering Rage would like to raise a few objections of his own, but he goes along meekly, keeping clear of the dog, looking less cocky than he did a few minutes ago. It seems that even Rage is wary of the mysterious, unpredictable Owl Man.
Dan-Dan leads Coley and me up the towering flights of stairs to the top of the wall overlooking the area I crossed when I first came to the Power Station. He’s wheezing like a thirsty dog by the time we crest the last flight. Dan-Dan’s fitter than he looks, but carrying that much weight, there’s only so much exercise that he can endure. Coley is also sweating but with fear.
Justin’s positioned himself in the middle of the walkway, looking out over the side-buildings and the area beyond, to where the zombies and mutants are massed. The reviveds are standing stiffly, some swaying gently as the mutants move among them, blowing whistles to hold them in place, the way they’ve done when I’ve seen them at work before.
The banner features an accurate representation of my face, or at least the way I looked before Dan-Dan carved my cheeks apart and cut off my ears and shaved me bald. It’s hard to judge from here, but it must be at least six or seven meters high.
The painting reminds me of Timothy Jackson, the artist I befriended, torn apart by zombies when he tried to care for a mutant baby. The style isn’t similar to his work, but the subject matter is the same. Poor old Timothy loved to paint the undead. He’d have been fascinated by the drawing.
“Are you behind this?” Justin snaps as I’m brought before him.
“Hardly,” I snort.
“You didn’t set it up before you came to us?”
I sneer. “If I had that sort of pull, I’d be powerful like you mugs, but I’m just a normal, hard-working girl.”
“More than that, it seems,” Justin says.
For a long time nothing happens and we mutely observe the ranks of zombies and mutants as they stare back at us. Finally there’s movement and they part to create an avenue, along which a familiar figure comes stalking.
It’s been a while since I crossed paths with Mr. Dowling, but he hasn’t changed much. He’s wearing a green pinstripe suit and a pair of red, oversized shoes with small skulls attached to the tips. A severed face hangs from either shoulder. Lengths of gut are wound round his arms. One change is that, instead of pinning ears to the legs of his trousers, he’s replaced them with tongues.
His hair looks normal from here, but I know it’s really lots of strands ripped from various victims and stapled into his scalp. His face is white. Two pink-colored, v-shaped channels have been carved into his cheeks, running from beneath either eye down to just above his upper lip.
He had a human eye stuck to his nose the last time I saw him, but that’s no longer there. Maybe it fell off, or he got tired of it. Long, thin fingers, the flesh sliced away in many places to reveal the veins, arteries and bones beneath. I always assumed he pruned the flesh himself, for effect, but looking down at my similarly shredded form, I wonder if maybe the clown had a run-in with someone like Dan-Dan in the past.
Even from this distance I can see his eyes twitching madly, rolling around their sockets like marbles. And his skin is rippling, as if insects are burrowing through his flesh. Which they might be—I recall when we first met, how he spat a shower of spiders over my face.
“Unbelievable,” Justin sighs. “What the hell is he?”
“You don’t know?” I ask.
“He’s not one of us,” Dan-Dan says. “We hate and fear him as much as your Dr. Oystein does.”
“He’s a loose cannon,” Justin says. “He can’t be reasoned with or controlled.”
Mr. Dowling does a crazy dance as he passes his supporters. The mutants cheer, but the zombies don’t pay much attention. They obey Mr. Dowling and his mutated followers, but it’s not out of a sense of loyalty or because they admire him. It’s something instinctual. They’ll follow any undead or semi-dead creature who shows signs of leadership.
The nightmarish clown leaps to a halt in front of his troops, sets his hands on his hips and strikes an exaggerated pose, so that we’re looking at him in profile. As we stare, a mutant steps out of the crowd. It’s Kinslow, the one I first met in the Imperial War Museum on a day that feels like it was several lifetimes ago.
Kinslow is packing a megaphone. He raises it and addresses the watchers on the wall. “We’ll keep this short and simple. We know you have the girl. We want her. Deliver her to us immediately or else. You get one chance to comply. This won’t turn into a debate. So have a quick chat about it among yourselves and let us know what you decide.”
Justin grinds his teeth. “Who do they think they are,” he growls, “coming here and trying to order us around?”
“Maybe we should give her to them,” Vicky Wedge squeaks. “She’s not that important to us. Why antagonize them?”
“Vicky might be right this time,” Dan-Dan mutters.
Justin looks at him with surprise. “Afraid, Daniel?”
“No,” Dan-Dan says stiffly. “But we don’t know what that clown is capable of. I despise this wench, but she’s not worth risking everything for. If we have to let her go, so be it.”
Justin’s face is practically radioactive. “This has nothing to do with the girl,” he roars. “This is about that maniac challenging our authority. If we give in to him now, what will he demand of us next?” Justin turns to a soldier who is gripping a small machine. “Are the sirens active?”
The soldier checks his readings and nods. “As strong as ever.”
“Any evidence that the mutants have found a way to interfere with the signal or strike at the speakers or the generators?”
“No,” the soldier says.
“Then to hell with them.” Justin snaps his fingers for a megaphone. Stepping forward, he calls to Kinslow. “We don’t do deals with lunatics and their undead followers. Leave now or we’ll open fire on the whole stinking lot of you.”
Kinslow laughs in response. “That’s the worst move you’ll ever make, Bazini. Don’t say we didn’t try to do this reasonably. Although, if I’m honest, it’s going to be a lot more fun this way, so I’m glad you’ve been a stubborn fool.”
“Get me a bazooka,” Justin snarls at one of his team. “I’m going to blow that impudent oaf’s head from his shoulders.”
As the soldier jogs off, Kinslow steps back into the crush of mutants and zombies. As we watch, Mr. Dowling slowly lifts his right hand over his head. He looks like a deranged flamenco dancer. There’s a long pause, then he snaps his fingers and stamps his feet.
Justin laughs. “If that’s his opening salvo, this is going to be a very one-sided battle. Now where’s that damn bazoo–”
“Sir!” the soldier who has been monitoring the strength of the sirens cries out. “Every speaker just went dead! The signal is down everywhere!”
Justin turns a sickly pale color. “Get it back,” he croaks.
“We can’t,” the soldier moans. “I don’t know how they’ve done it, but the speakers have been physically deactivated. We’d have to go out and repair or replace every single one of them.”
As Justin stares at the soldier with growing horror, there’s a rumbling noise, the sound of thousands of pairs of feet moving forward at the same time. The zombies are advancing, and there’s nothing to hold them back.
“Looks like we’ve got visitors,” I chirp.
SEVENTEEN
Battersea Power Station is an iconic building, set by the river, just a stone’s throw from the center of London. I can understand why the Klanners chose it for their base, and why the soldiers and members of the Board were happy to move in. But they either overlooked one key weakness, or were so confident in their system of sirens that they didn’t think it would matter.
The building is made of bricks. Zombies can easily dig into brick with their finger bones. That means they can c
limb it.
They stream across the wasteland and launch themselves at the walls. Soldiers and Klanners fire in a frenzy, and many of their bullets strike home, but the zombies keep on coming, a swarm of them, a dozen to replace each one that is killed. It’s only a matter of minutes before they’ll spill over the top.
“Stand true!” Justin screams as he hurries from his spot on the wall, Vicky Wedge flapping along behind him. “We can hold if we’re brave.”
That’s a load of bullshit. He just wants to buy time for himself, so that he can slip away like he did on the HMS Belfast. But if the troops are aware of that, they choose to ignore it, and most remain at their posts, pumping round after round into the zombies scaling the walls.
Dan-Dan tells one of the soldiers to give him a gun and casually aims it at me. Coley yelps and ducks out of the way as Dan-Dan squeezes an eye shut and mutters, “Time to put you out of my misery, little girl.”
“I don’t think so,” Dad says, stepping up beside me with a gun of his own.
“What are you doing?” Dan-Dan snarls.
“Protecting my daughter,” Dad answers coolly.
“You were quick enough to give her to me earlier,” Dan-Dan says.
Dad shrugs. “I had no choice then. She was doomed no matter what. This is a different situation. Leave her be, Lord Wood. You have more to worry about now.”
“Coley!” Dan-Dan barks.
“My lord?”
“Don’t just stand there like an idiot. Deal with this impudent revolutionary.”
Coley’s gripping the Taser that he loves so much. He’s got a gun but it’s in its holster. I see him think about dropping the Taser and going for the gun.
“Don’t,” I growl, taking a few quick steps towards him and baring my fangs.
Coley hisses and grips the Taser tighter, defending himself from me.
“Coley!” Dan-Dan howls.
“I can’t,” Coley wails, his eyes wide with terror behind his sunglasses. “If I let go of this, she’ll be on me before I can draw my gun.”
“That’s a risk you’ll have to take,” Dan-Dan snarls.
Coley gulps and shakes his head. “I can’t,” he says again, miserably this time.
Dan-Dan swears foully, then adjusts his aim and fires a bullet through the center of a surprised Coley’s forehead. The guard drops in a sudden dead heap, blood pouring from the hole between the two orbs of his sunglasses.
“I’ll deal with you two later,” Dan-Dan vows as he takes off, waddling down the stairs as fast as he can.
I stare at the slain guard, wondering what his ex-partner Barnes would have made of this. Dad isn’t so bothered.
“Wait there,” he says, and trots across the landing to where a soldier is reloading his gun. The soldier is carrying a ring of keys on his belt. Dad asks for it. When the soldier ignores him, Dad uses the butt of his gun to club the soldier unconscious, slips off the ring and comes jogging back. I turn away from Coley, putting him from my thoughts, and let Dad unlock the handcuffs.
“Thanks,” I mutter, flexing my fingers, glad to be free again.
“What now?” Dad asks. “Do we stay and fight?”
“No point. There are too many of them. This place will be theirs soon.” I glance at the cages in the courtyard. “Is there anywhere we could hide the prisoners?”
I expect a contemptuous retort but Dad nods soberly. “There are rooms in the section where you were being held. They’re secure. But only from zombies. I don’t think anyone ever thought to prepare for a mutant attack. They’ll be able to use machinery or ammunition to break through.”
“Let’s get as many to safety as we can,” I tell him. “Then I’ll hand myself over to Mr. Dowling. Hopefully he’ll withdraw when he has me.”
I start down the stairs and Dad is hot on my heels.
“Why is the clown interested in you?” he pants as we descend.
“I wish I knew.”
“You could try to escape rather than surrender to him.”
“Maybe. Let’s see where we stand once we–”
There are screams behind us as the first of the zombies crests the wall. I pause and look back. I can’t see anything above but, as I’m hesitating, I spot Dan-Dan shepherding his flock of children into his private chambers. I wince and stare down at the yard again. It’s chaos, but no zombies have got in on the ground level yet, and it will be a while before they gouge their way through the troops up top.
I turn to face my dad. “I’m gonna target Dan-Dan. Can I trust you to start freeing the prisoners and guiding them to the safe rooms?”
Dad frowns. “What do you think I am, some kind of freedom fighter?”
“They’ll be ripped apart by zombies if we leave them there!” I shout. “Do you really want that on your conscience?”
“It wouldn’t trouble me in the slightest,” Dad says, and I have to smother the urge to bite him.
“Please, if not for them, do it for me,” I growl. “You’ve been a lousy father. It’s time to make up for some of the crap you’ve put me through. For once in your life, do the right thing and be a true bloody hero.”
Dad stares at me coldly, then nods abruptly. “All right. But for you, not them. Come help me when you’re done.”
“Sure thing,” I snap, taking off.
“B!” he shouts after me. “I’m proud of you.”
“Yeah, well, make me proud of you too,” I shout back, then hurry to the door of Dan-Dan’s quarters. It’s locked from the inside, but even though it’s a huge, heavy door, the lock is a simple latch, designed for privacy from human eyes, not to keep out a zombie.
I’m in no shape to be battering down doors, but there’s nobody else who can do it for me. Steeling myself, I slam my right shoulder into the door just above where the latch is. I almost faint with the pain. If I was alive, I’m sure I’d black out, but it takes a lot to short-circuit a zombie’s brain.
I slam into the door again, then a third time. Thankfully the lock snaps and the door swings open. I don’t think I could have managed a fourth attempt.
I stumble into the apartment and go in search of Dan-Dan. He’s not in any of the living rooms. Nor is he in the room where I was tortured. I pause and gaze at the table where I was strapped for all those hours, cringing at the grisly memories. Then I force myself on, stopping only to pick up a looped belt that is loaded with knives. I remember this from the cart. That’s nowhere in sight, but the belt must have fallen off when it was being wheeled away.
I scour the rooms again, and this time I find a door hidden behind a silk screen. I open it and traverse a short corridor. At the end I come to a room with a balcony overlooking the courtyard. That’s where I find the children.
And Dan-Dan.
The killer in the sailor’s outfit is on the balcony, wringing his hands, staring at the sky as if on the lookout for God.
“Come on, come on,” he mutters. “Where are you?”
“Hey, fat boy,” I call.
Dan-Dan whirls, aims his gun and fires. I duck out of sight.
“Stay away from me!” Dan-Dan shrieks.
“Not a hope in Hell,” I chuckle. “You’re mine, sicko.”
“How are you going to take me?” he counters. “I have a gun. If you try to rush me, I’ll shoot you through the brain.”
“You’d better hope your finger doesn’t shake,” I taunt him, “because if you miss, it’s good night, sweet Lord.”
Dan-Dan hesitates, then giggles. “I have a better idea. If you come for me, I’ll shoot a few of my darlings first. How does that sit with you?” My face darkens and he laughs at the silence. “Let me go, Becky. There’ll be a helicopter coming for me any second now. Just let me fly away and I’ll leave my darlings behind. Does that sound like a fair deal?”
“It might to her,” someone replies before I can, “but not to me.”
My head snaps round and I spot Rage lurking behind me. Sakarias is with him, the dog’s fangs exposed, growling s
oftly. I would have heard them sneaking up on me if my ears hadn’t been removed, distorting my hearing. I whip out a knife and prepare to defend myself.
“Easy,” Rage soothes me. “I’m not the enemy this time. Owl Man sent me. He figured you’d come here and thought you might need help.”
“From you?” I sneer.
“Me and the dog,” Rage says, then calls to Dan-Dan again. “Owl Man gave me a message to pass on. He said the Valkyries aren’t flying today.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Dan-Dan shouts back.
“Well, I’m no expert,” Rage drawls, “but I guess it means he intercepted or disabled your emergency call to the helicopter crew who were supposed to come rescue you if something like this happened.”
Dan-Dan’s horrified wail is sweet music to my ears. Or would be if I had any.
“Sakarias,” Rage says, clicking his tongue. The sheepdog looks up. “Gun.”
Sakarias barks, then darts round the corner and bounds across the room. Rage and I stick our heads out to watch. Dan-Dan yelps and starts firing, but the dog is too fast. Just before Sakarias launches itself, Dan-Dan shrieks and throws his gun to the floor, afraid that the dog will bite and infect him.
Sakarias picks up the gun and comes trotting back. “Good boy,” Rage murmurs, patting the dog’s head. He removes the gun from its mouth and steps into the room. “Away from there,” he snarls at the defenseless Dan-Dan.
A pale Lord Wood drags himself away from the balcony. The children stay where they are. Most are weeping, not sure what’s happening, thinking they’re in trouble, but some are grinning darkly, following proceedings with a ghoulish glee that their master would have approved of if they’d leveled such a look on anybody else.
“Let’s not be hasty,” Dan-Dan moans. “Remember all the promises I made, the island, power, riches.”
“They don’t matter to me now,” Rage sniffs. “You’re out of the game. I don’t align myself with losers.”