He lapses into silence, his expression distant.
‘Do you still have that painting?’ I ask.
‘No. I burnt it and scattered the ashes over Alan’s corpse. It would have felt like theft if I’d taken it. That moment belonged to him. I didn’t want to steal it.’
‘But you’ve stolen all of these,’ I murmur, waving at the canvases.
‘Yes,’ he sighs. ‘I should feel guilty but I don’t. I can’t afford guilt or love or anything pure like that. To do my job, I have to be as passionless as the zombies I paint and run from.’ He smiles fleetingly. ‘That might be another reason why I’ve made it as far as I have. Maybe they realise, as they draw closer, that I’m not so different to them. In many ways I’m one of the walking dead as well . . .’
Later Timothy asks if he can sketch me before he hits the sack. I sit for him patiently while he stares at the hole in my chest and tries to bring it to life on a canvas. He shows it to me when he’s done. My face is dimly painted with a mix of dark grey colours. All the focus is on the red and green mess around the hole where my boob should be. I hate the way I look in the drawing.
‘You don’t like it,’ Timothy notes, disappointed.
‘It’s just . . . am I really that ugly?’ I ask.
He shakes his head. ‘You’re not ugly at all. But you’re a walking corpse. I have to show that, otherwise it won’t ring true.’
‘That’s how I look to you?’ I sniff. ‘Pale, distant, vicious?’
‘Not vicious,’ Timothy corrects me. ‘I would have said hungry. Not just for brains, but for your old life, a cure, the ability to be human again. You hunger for things you can no longer have, and that hunger brings you pain.’
I think about that hours later, while Timothy sleeps. I’ve stayed in the room of paintings, studying them silently, looking for familiar faces. I am in pain, all the time, and it’s not just because I’m undead. I lost my parents and friends — whether they’re dead, alive or somewhere between, I’ll almost certainly never see them again. I threw an innocent boy to a pack of zombies. I killed humans when I turned. I failed to save Mark from the zom heads. I have blood on my hands. There’s rot in my soul.
By rights, I should huddle up in a ball and howl, beg for pity, forgiveness, release. I should hurl myself off a tall building or find a gun and blow my brains out. In this cruel world, I can only experience more pain, ruin more lives, kill or infect. If Timothy stumbled when he was painting me, and I reached out to steady him, and one of my nails nicked his flesh . . .
I stare at the monsters in the paintings. I’m no less monstrous than any of them. Maybe I’m worse, still being able to think. They have no choice in what they do, but I have. I could eliminate myself, make sure nobody ever suffered again at my twisted, wretched hands.
But I keep thinking about the possibility of revitalising the rest of the undead hordes. If my blood could be used to restore consciousness in other zombies, it might help bring order back to this crazy, lethal world.
In the morning, when Timothy awakes, I tell him I have to go.
‘You’re leaving?’ He blinks sleepily. ‘Did I say something to offend you?’
‘No,’ I smile. ‘But I can’t stay. There’s going to be a rescue mission soon. I have to surrender, let the soldiers know I’m different, so their scientists can study me and maybe find a way to help other zombies think clearly.’
Timothy hums. ‘The soldiers would, I imagine, be more inclined to execute you on sight.’
‘Yeah, I know. But I have to try. You can come along too if you want.’
He smiles shyly. ‘I can’t leave. I belong here. I wish you luck, B, but your way isn’t mine. If they reject you, please bear in mind that you will always be welcome in my studio.’
‘Thanks.’ I chuckle drily. ‘I’d like to shake your hand, but . . .’
He chuckles too. ‘One tiny scratch and I’d be history.’
‘If I do get out,’ I say hesitantly, ‘is there anything you need, anything I can send back to you?’
He shakes his head. ‘Just tell people about my work.’ He gestures to the canvases. ‘We’ll all be here, the dead and I, waiting for the world to find us.’
‘What if they don’t want to find you?’ I ask. ‘People might not want to look at paintings of zombies, having seen so many of them in the flesh.’
‘They will,’ he insists. He walks over to the nearest painting, picks it up and gazes into the face of a monster. ‘This is the truth, who we are and where we’ve come from. People are always drawn to the truth. It demands that we acknowledge it and learn.’
He closes his eyes and his face whitens.
‘In the end, stripped bare of everything else, as everyone is eventually, all we’re left with is the truth.’
I don’t understand that, so I leave Timothy hugging his painting, eyes shut, lost to a world of madness or truth or whatever you want to call it.
FIFTEEN
I’ve loads of time on my hands, so I decide to do a bit of sightseeing as I’m making my way towards the centre of the city, and cut south towards the river.
I come to the Tower of London and stroll around the moat to the main entrance. Amazingly, I’ve never visited here before, not even on a school tour.
As I approach the gate, I spot a Beefeater standing in the shadows of a hut. He growls and steps forward, squinting in the light. Part of his throat has been bitten out and green moss grows round the hole like a wayward beard. I let him examine the gap in my chest. Once he’s had a good look, I start forward, but he stops me.
‘Out of my way,’ I snap, but when I try to wriggle past, he pushes me back. ‘I’m one of you, idiot!’ I shout, and shove him aside.
The Beefeater slams an elbow into the side of my head as I’m passing, catching me by surprise. I haven’t seen any zombies fighting with one another. I didn’t think I had anything to fear. Seems like I should have been more cautious.
As I stagger around, the inside of my skull ringing wildly, the Beefeater grabs me and hauls me to the ground. He pins me with his knees and makes a howling, gurgling sound before baring his teeth and leaning forward to chew through my skull.
I thought I’d be able to outsmart a zombie in a one-on-one struggle, but the Beefeater has me bang to rights. All I can do is stare at him with horror as he opens his mouth wide and presses his fangs to the cold flesh of my forehead.
For a few seconds the Beefeater holds that position. My sights are locked on the hole in his throat. If I could get a hand free, I could maybe rip the hole wide open. As I’m considering that, and wondering why the Beefeater has paused, he leans back and looks at me stiffly. To my astonishment he holds up a hand and makes a pinching gesture with his thumb and fingers. Then he cocks his head sideways, questioningly.
‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ I groan, realising what the issue is.
The Beefeater snarls and makes the gesture with his fingers again. He’s a mindless, cannibalistic killer, but somewhere deep in that ruined brain of his, an old spark of instinct is driving him to do what he did every working day when he was alive.
‘OK,’ I wheeze. ‘If you let me up, I’ll play ball. I’m a good girl, I am.’
The Beefeater squints at me. I offer a shaky smile. He grunts and gets off, studying me suspiciously, as if he thinks I’m going to try and trick him.
Shaking my head with disbelief, I get to my feet and make for the ticket office which I passed on my way. The windows have been smashed in. I lean over the counter and grab a ticket from the nearest machine. Returning to the gate, I hand the ticket to the jobsworth of a zombie Beefeater. He takes it from me, nods gruffly and returns to his post, letting me through.
Unbe-bloody-lievable!
I go on a tour of the famous buildings, but most are packed with zombies – including a lot of overweight tourists who probably prefer their brains in batter and deep-fried – so I stick to the paths for the most part. I’m sorry I didn’t come when it was operatio
nal. I couldn’t care less about the Crown jewels, but I’d have loved to learn more about the prisoners who were held here and all the heads that were chopped off.
I recall the legend that if the ravens ever fled the Tower or died out, the city would fall. I always dismissed that as a story most likely cooked up by a raven-handler who wanted to make sure he was never driven out of a job. But as I wander, I note glumly that there isn’t a bird to be seen, apart from a few brittle bones, beaks and feathers.
Coincidence? Probably. But it gives me a mild dose of the creeps all the same. Did some scraggly, wild-eyed soothsayer predict this disaster all those centuries ago? Was this plague of the living dead always destined to happen? Uneasy, I push on sooner than I’d meant to, waving goodbye to the Beefeater as I pass, no hard feelings. In an odd sort of way I respect him. He’s stuck true to his principles, even in death. I don’t mind that he roughed me up. In his position I like to think that I’d do the same.
I cross Tower Bridge. It hasn’t escaped the turmoil unscathed. A plane came down in this area – I guess a zombie must have got onboard and caused chaos – and chunks of the wreckage are lying in the river where it crashed. On its way, it took out the two walkways at the top of the bridge, smashing straight through them. The towers that they were attached to weren’t damaged. It’s as if someone came along and snipped off the connecting tunnels with a giant pair of scissors.
Rubble from the walkways is strewn across the road and footpaths, so I have to zigzag my way across. I pause at the point where the two halves of the bridge meet. How cool would it be if I found the engine rooms and raised the drawbridge!
I grin as I imagine it, then shake my head regretfully. Time might be on my side, but I don’t have that much to play with. Besides, I’m not a child. I’m on a deadly serious mission. This is proper, grown-up business.
The strangely-shaped, glass-fronted mayor’s building is gleaming in the sun, half-blinding me. I hurry on past and head for HMS Belfast, thinking I might go for a stroll around the deck. But as I approach, I spot humans onboard. They’ve barricaded the gangway and several are standing guard, heavy rifles hanging by their sides. As I stare at the living people, bewildered to find them here, one of them spots me, raises his gun and opens fire.
Yelping, I duck out of sight and wait for the bullets to stop. When they do, I take off my jacket and wave it at the people on the boat.
‘Ahoy!’ I roar, getting all nautical. ‘My name’s B Smith. I don’t mean you any harm. I want to –’
The guy starts shooting again before I can finish. Bullets rip through my jacket and one almost blows a couple of my fingers off. Cursing, I drop the jacket, then yank it to safety. I don’t know who the people on the boat are, but they clearly like their own company, and when someone’s armed to the teeth and quick on the trigger, a wise girl gives them all the space in the world that they want.
I detour via Tooley Street. I remember Dad telling me that the London Dungeon used to be here before it moved. I always loved that ghoulish maze of torment and atrocity, but I don’t think I’ll ever bother with it again. This city of the dead boasts more than enough public horrors, like the hanging zombie on . . .
I stop and wince — the zombie who was dangling from the lamp post on Bethnal Green Road! I meant to free him when I left Timothy’s place, but I forgot all about him. It’s no biggie. In fact it seems ridiculous to worry about a single zombie in this city of monsters. But if I was in his position and someone had the power to set me free and didn’t . . .
What if you free him and he ends up killing Timothy? part of me sulks as I turn to head back the way I came.
‘That’s life,’ I shrug.
The zombie doesn’t thank me when I cut him down, or show the least sign that he’s grateful. Instead, having paused to sniff me in case I’m worth tucking into, he hurries away, seeking shelter, stumbling into anything in his path, unable to see clearly out of his almost totally white eyes.
Feeling more of a time-wasting fool than a good Samaritan, I retrace my steps and make it back to Tooley Street by early afternoon. Moving on, I slip past Southwark Bridge and cast a wary eye over the shell of the Globe. I never went to a show there – wild horses couldn’t have dragged me – but I know all about this place. It’s where they used to put on Shakespearean plays every summer.
As I consider the fact that nobody will ever stage a three- or four-hour version of Hamlet or King Lear here ever again, I break out into a smile and chuckle wickedly — the downfall of civilisation isn’t all bad news!
SIXTEEN
I’m heading for the impressive-looking Tate Modern when I spot a small boat pulling up to the pier. I watch with astonishment as nine people pile out and march towards shore like tourists on a day trip.
But these aren’t like any tourists I’ve ever seen. All nine – four men and five women – are dressed in blue robes. Their arms are bare. Each has a tiny blue symbol scrawled across their forehead. And they chant softly as they progress.
I hang back as the group ignores the art museum and heads on to the pedestrian bridge, which my dad used to call the Wobbly Bridge, since it wobbled so badly when it first opened that they had to close it for months to steady it up.
Something about these people unsettles me. They don’t seem to be carrying any weapons, yet they’re walking around openly. Hasn’t anyone told them about the zombies?
I follow the group on to the bridge, wait until we’re halfway across – St Paul’s Cathedral towers ahead of us – then call out to them, ‘Hey!’
They stop but don’t turn. I edge closer, skin prickling, ready to dive over the side of the bridge if they produce guns from beneath their robes and open fire. But although the men and women glance at me as I slip past them, nobody reacts in any other way.
The woman at the head of the group studies me with a solemn expression as I stop before her. She’s pretty, but has a pinched, stern face. Her hair is pure white – all the others have white hair too, which makes me think it’s dye – so it’s hard to judge her age.
‘You are one of the restless dead,’ the woman says, having noted the hole in my chest.
‘Yeah.’
She cocks her head. ‘I did not know that the undead could speak.’
‘Most can’t. I’m an exception.’
The woman nods, then spreads her arms wide. ‘I am Sister Clare, of the Order of the Shnax. Have you come to attack us, foul creature of the lost?’
‘No.’
‘You have not come to slice open our skulls and feast on our brains?’ she presses, pale blue eyes hard in the glaring sunlight.
‘Not unless you want me to,’ I joke.
‘There!’ the woman exclaims to those behind her. ‘The blessings of the Shnax are with us, as I told you they would be.’
The people in the robes mutter appreciatively and bow their heads. Sister Clare basks in their adulation, then trains her gaze on me again.
‘Are you a vile imp sent to guide us?’ she asks haughtily.
‘No,’ I growl, resisting the urge to punch her on the nose. ‘I saw you getting out of the boat and was curious. I wanted to warn you as well. It’s dangerous here. The zombies –’
‘We know all about them,’ she interrupts. ‘They are why we have come, to test our faith against theirs.’
‘What are you talking about?’ I frown. ‘Zombies don’t have any faith. They’re brainless.’
‘They are instruments of the dark forces of the universe,’ she corrects me. ‘By walking without fear among them, we will challenge those who work through their pitiful forms and reclaim this ground that they would steal from us. If you mean neither to help nor hinder us, then step aside or face the wrath of the Shnax.’
The woman waves a hand at me and glides past imperiously. The others follow, nodding and mumbling. A few smirk at me. One of the men touches the symbol on his forehead, then points at me as if to say, ‘I’ve got my eye on you!’
I don’t care
much for Sister Clare or her sneering tone, but these weirdos have caught my attention. I can’t resist following, to find out what they’re up to. So, ignoring the fact that they don’t care for my company, I trail after them as they cross the bridge and wander into the zombie-infested bowels of the city.
SEVENTEEN
The fearless members of the Order of the Shnax march to St Paul’s and stop outside, chanting happily, beaming at one another. The sun is shining brightly and no zombies are on the streets. It’s as if we have the city to ourselves.
Sister Clare leads the group on a full circuit of the cathedral, then heads east. I try to wring more information out of her as they proceed.
‘You know you’re all going to be killed.’
She raises an eyebrow. ‘You might wish for our deaths, vulgar beast of the otherworld, but you will be disappointed. We have the power of the Shnax on our side. No harm will befall us.’
‘What are the Shnax?’ I press. ‘Some sort of religious group?’
‘We are of the true religion,’ Sister Clare tells me and points a finger at the sky. ‘The religion of the stars.’
‘The stars . . .’ the others echo dreamily, all pointing upwards.
‘Celestial beings have always gazed down on us,’ Sister Clare continues. ‘Since the dawn of mankind they have encouraged us, rewarded us when we are deserving, punished us when we have sinned. They are the Shnax.’
‘Aliens?’ I laugh. ‘Pull the other one!’
She smiles condescendingly. ‘Like so many others, you can only mock. That is why you were turned into a pitiful mockery of the human form while we were spared. This world was disgusting, overcrowded with vain, petty humans. It needed clearing so that a fresh, clean civilisation could grow out of the ashes of the old.