The Secret Dead (London Bones Book 1) (3 page)

4

Jillie’s eyes rolled, and I saw nothing but the whites—doped to the gills. The NRT in front tugged again. Jillie stumbled towards the orange containment van. She moved slowly—the dogcatchers around her limbs wouldn’t let her do otherwise, despite the guards holding the metal loops. It took some time for the group to negotiate the ramp at the back of the van before she finally disappeared inside.

There would be a metal cage in the van and places for the loops where they detached from the metal poles, and until she got to the Detention Centre, she’d be completely immobile. Shouts and catcalls rose from the crowd, then died down again.

My eyes were drawn back to the ruined front door, but neither Malcolm nor Finn appeared. I glanced into the van and wished I hadn’t. The NRTs were in the process of attaching the metal loops to steel rings on the side of the van. I could only imagine what that might feel like, to be drugged and dragged from your home in the freezing cold, in front of all your neighbours. I shivered. Poor Jillie.

‘Thought you might turn up early.’

I turned to see Dunne walking towards me. He’d found a scarf from somewhere and had drawn it up over his neck and mouth against the cold air. The ginger-haired young man followed a step behind.

‘I wanted to know,’ I said. ‘Jillie’s alive at least. That’s something.’

Dunne shrugged. ‘Could be infected. Could be in two days she’d bite your nose off if she had half a chance.’ His voice was muffled behind the scarf. He glanced at me, and his expression softened. ‘Sorry, that was insensitive. You friends?’

I shook my head. ‘I hardly know her. What about the rest of the family? Malcolm’s got a little boy. I think he’s only two or three. Is he okay?’

‘Boy’s in the loft with Brannick. They’re trying to talk them out.’

I felt a little ill. Another common zombie scenario: hostages, except their demands never included pizza. We were interrupted as an NRT I didn’t recognise beckoned to Dunne from the remains of the front door. Dunne turned to me. ‘Excuse me.’ He walked towards the house and went inside.

I glanced upwards. The house had originally been two stories like the others in the street, but at some time a timber loft extension had been added, turning Malcolm’s house into a rectangular box. No light showed from the single loft window.

The ginger policeman turned to me. ‘Zombie ran up with the boy the moment they bashed in the door,’ he said, putting his hand out. ‘Shawn Little.’

‘Vivia Brisk,’ I said, grateful for the distraction. I didn’t want to think about what was going on up there in the dark. His hand was dry and warm.

‘So this is what a death witch looks like. Dunne told me you were ugly as sin, but I couldn’t quite picture it till now.’

‘Wow, thanks. I always love a compliment.’

‘No, seriously. You look like a Halloween costume,’ he said earnestly, as if I just didn’t get it. ‘Ugh, you smell like death too.’

What was with this wally? I gave him a closer look. He was taller than me, but not by much. His tailored suit did its best to disguise the beer belly, but couldn’t hide the double chin. He smelt like warm fur and tuna, and his eyes were an unnaturally bright shade of green. ‘You’re not human.’

He smiled. His teeth were very white. ‘Neither are you. I’m the new sniffer.’

That explained the smell comment. ‘What are you?’

‘Cat.’ And that explained the rudeness.

This was why the police usually hired dogs—much easier to get on with. I wondered if Little was the type of cat who got off on crapping in the neighbours’ veggie patch. The Lipscombe had more than one cat client fighting an ASBO for doing that.

‘Shifter or wereperson?’ I asked, more out of habit than out of any real interest. Shifters had the ability to actually shift into their totem animal; werepeople just took on their characteristics.

‘Shifter. Your standard
Felis Domesticus
. British Shorthair, if you want to be specific.’

I nodded and stomped my feet to try to warm them. It didn’t work. It never did. ‘Do you know how Malcolm died?’

The cat shook his head. ‘Wife claims he was alive when she went to bed. Guess we’ll find out if he agrees to an autopsy.’

My gaze shot upwards at a creaking sound. The loft window at the top of the house opened. Malcolm swung his legs out. They were bare, and he wore only a pair of blue striped boxer shorts. He was alone. My heart skipped a beat before I realised Malcolm would be covered in blood if he had attacked his son.

Malcolm was definitely dead. Still moving, but definitely dead. The hag part of me was offended at the feeling of wrongness emanating from him.

A small hand reached through the window and grabbed Malcolm’s boxer shorts. Malcolm twisted from his seat on the sill and gently moved it away. I let out the breath I hadn’t realised I’d been holding.

Despite his efforts, I’d never paid much attention to the man’s physique, but Malcolm was scrawnier than I would have imagined, all silver hair and skinny legs.

He wasn’t noticeably decayed, so either he hadn’t been dead long or he’d been very, very bad. The cat’s flesh alone wouldn’t have staved off decay for more than an hour or two.

There was no sign of injury, nothing to indicate how he had died. He sat on the window sill, legs dangling. He stared upwards, his mouth set in a tight line. I followed his gaze and saw nothing but grey cloud.

A loud crash sounded from within the house. Malcolm looked behind him, then peered down as if contemplating jumping.

A fall wouldn’t destroy a zombie, of course, but without fresh flesh to reknit the damage to his bones and muscle, he’d only lose control faster. He certainly wouldn’t be able to outrun the police blocking either end of the street. I’d always thought the man was stupid, but I didn’t think he was that stupid.

I thought of the little boy in the attic with him, and I called, ‘Don’t be an arse, Malcolm. Don’t jump in front of Finn.’

Malcolm heard me. He looked down, clearly surprised to see me. He looked up, and an expression of relief washed over his face. Then he pushed back with his feet against the wall and jumped, arms straight out in front of him, as if he were diving into a swimming pool.

5

Malcolm fell, but he didn’t land. A dark shape dropped from the grey sky above him. One moment Malcolm was falling, the next he was blocked from sight completely. By a giant pair of wings.

Next to me, Little drew in a sharp intake of breath, and someone in the crowd screamed.

The wings twisted to show a skinny figure bent over double—Ben, one thin arm under Malcolm’s left armpit, the other scrabbling to establish another hold on his father. Malcolm hung to Ben’s legs, gripping his jeans. They struggled in the air, each trying to get a better grip on the other. Ben wobbled, and dipped, then rose again with effort. Malcolm stopped moving, and Ben stabilised. Malcolm murmured something, and Ben replied, but they were too high and too far away for me to make out the words.

The boy let go of his father and straightened. At the same time, Malcolm changed his grip and hugged the boy’s legs tightly.

The wings were huge, but the boy was skinny, fragile, and even high up the movement of the muscles in his back was visible as he struggled with the additional weight.

Ben’s wings beat against the frigid night air. For the briefest time, all was quiet. Everyone stood silent and staring. Dunne appeared on Malcolm’s doorstep, with the head of the Necroambulism Response Team, Aaron Slender, behind him.

‘Trank the bloody thing! It’s got the zombie!’ Slender shouted.

Two NRTs raced out from behind him. They knelt on the tarmac, pointing their guns upwards. They took their time—aimed, then fired. The guns made almost no noise, and the darts went wide.

Ben stared at them, as if in shock. His face was pinched and angular, lacking any puppy fat or soft lines. His jaw was set, and his eyes huge and filled with some emotion I couldn’t quite identify. Something tightly controlled. Rage, or grief perhaps.

Sweat beaded down the sides of his face with the effort of keeping them up in the air. Flashes flickered throughout the crowd as people pointed their mobile phones towards him.

Malcolm raised his face and said something. Ben grimaced, and the great wings beat harder. Father and son began to rise, wings wrapping around them both with each beat. The huge wings flapped again, and again.

The NRTs fired, but they were out of range, and once more the darts went wide.

Within thirty seconds, Malcolm and Ben were tiny figures against the sky, then just a speck, and then gone, disappeared into the thick cloud layer.

6

The two NRTs who’d fired at the boy got to their feet. I couldn’t make out their expressions through their visors, but they seemed lost. Procedures dictated what to do if the zombie tried to run into the crowd, or took a hostage, or even if it tried to self-cannibalise, but not if it flew away.

Slender stood open-mouthed. The NRT chief was a bulky man with a double mole under his nose that had the unfortunate appearance of a Hitler moustache. A vein twitched at the top of his forehead.

The reflection of the Christmas lights on his face flashed red then green. ‘What the hell was that?’

I cleared my throat. ‘Ben. That was Ben.’

‘And what the hell is that when it’s at home?’

‘Malcolm’s son. He’s one of the winged people.’

‘Bloody hell. I thought they were all on St Kilda or Orkney or something.’

I said nothing. Quite clearly Ben wasn’t on St Kilda, even if he was supposed to be.

Slender shook himself, stalked over to the NRTs, and began directing them, his arms waving. The group split into four—one remained, and the others trotted off towards the police cars parked on the other side of the road. The constables parted the crowds, and the three cars disappeared. I shivered and stared up. There was nothing but thick grey cloud—no way to determine the direction Malcolm and the boy had gone.

‘This is so not good,’ Little muttered.

He was right. This was not good. If Malcolm bit Ben... A normal zombie was dangerous enough, but a flying zombie? I wasn’t the only one who’d had the thought. At least half the crowd were looking up. They didn’t know Ben was still alive the way I did.

Slender pulled out his mobile and dialled, jaw clenched. In the years he’d been in charge of the London Necroambulism Response Team, he had never lost a zombie.

If the Prime Minister wasn’t awake, he would be soon and signing off on a State of Emergency declaration. Slender muttered into the phone, and somewhere in army headquarters I imagined someone pressing a red button and soldiers scrambling into trucks, ready to go before the ink dried.

Overkill perhaps, but the reason Britain was one of the few countries to have never had a serious necroambulism outbreak.

At the end of the road, one of the constables trotted over to one of the unmarked police cars and produced a loudhailer. ‘
The city is in lockdown. Go home or to your place of employment immediately, whichever is closer. Failure to comply may result in a fine or incarceration. I repeat...
’

I didn’t think the instruction applied to me anyway, but then Dunne trotted over. ‘You can stay put. We’re going to need you later.’

‘Will do.’

He nodded, then turned towards the house. The cat followed him in.

I pulled my phone out my pocket. Malcolm was dead. I’d seen it for myself and couldn’t put off calling Obe any longer. I stood working the words around in my head, but no matter how I rearranged them, I couldn’t find a way to break the news gently. Before I had the chance to dial, cameras began to flash.

NRTs appeared at the broken door. Little Finn wore miniature versions of the cuffs and rods that had contained his mother. The boy was alive but unconscious—darted and drugged as per procedure for under-twelves, a gesture fed to the public as simple humanitarian concern but one I knew had only been introduced because photographs of children going into hysterics didn’t look good on the front page. Saliva dribbled down the child’s chin, and he bobbed between the NRTs as if they were carrying a cooler bag of beers.

Malcolm had a photo of Finn on his desk, but I’d never seen the child in the flesh. He had the same snub nose and rounded face as his mother, but he’d missed out on her bright frizzy hair. Instead he had the colour I thought Malcolm would have had as a boy—a mousy brown that would darken as he grew older.

If he grew older.

The child appeared uninjured, but Malcolm had been on the turn and I couldn’t see what was under Finn’s aeroplane pyjamas. The little boy disappeared into the back of the containment van. An NRT locked and bolted the back, and the engine started. The uniforms resituated the barriers so the van could leave. Its tail lights disappeared into the distance, and Malcolm’s family was gone. Show’s over, folks.

The crowd dispersed slowly, nudged along by the NRTs and the police, unwilling to leave just because of a single loose zombie who’d already flown away. The looky-loos hanging out of the windows remained a little longer, until it was clear nothing more exciting was going to happen. Then they closed the windows against the cold air and went in to get their updates from the telly instead.

I couldn’t put off calling Obe any longer. I scrolled to his number and put the phone to my ear. He answered after the first ring.

‘Vivvie?’ The tone was so plaintive, I knew immediately I was too late. He’d already heard.

‘I’m at Malcolm’s house,’ I said.

‘I know,’ he said in a hoarse voice. ‘I saw you on the news.’

‘I’m sorry. I should have called earlier, but I wanted to be sure.’ I rubbed at my temple with my free hand. ‘Jillie’s not hurt though, and neither is Finn. Or at least they didn’t look it. They’re both on their way to quarantine now.’

There was nothing but snuffling on the other end of the line.

‘Are you all right? Your place is closer than mine. The police are going to want the usual consultation, but I can come to yours straight after.’

‘I’m at the office.’ At—I took the phone from my ear and glanced at the time—six in the morning. I suppressed a groan. Without anyone in the office to tell my workaholic colleague to go home, Obe’d likely been sleeping under his desk and living on nothing but fried chicken from the dodgy kebab shop down the road. He’d had food poisoning from them twice. When I’d called him on Christmas Day to pass on my wishes, the echo on the phone had made it clear he’d been on the toilet, but I was willing to bet he still hadn’t learnt his lesson.

‘I’ll come through to the office once I’m done. You need me to call anyone?’

‘I know I’ve had my ups and downs,’ Obe said. ‘Okay, mostly downs, but I’m not that fragile, Viv. I’ll be fine for a few hours.’

We said goodbye, and I hung up. I tucked my hands under my armpits and wished I’d had the foresight to bring a pair of gloves.

I clicked onto the BBC news app on my phone. Instead of the usual set of news stories, it linked directly to a big, yellow, framed warning: London Lockdown.

I tapped through and onto the news. The cover picture showed Ben perfectly. My connection wasn’t great and it froze a few times, but I watched a video of Malcolm and the winged boy struggle to hold onto each other, take flight, then disappear, again and again.

On Twitter, both the video and a still shot were already trending. Someone had taken a good photo of the two of them: Malcolm was in shadow, his back to the photographer, Ben’s wings bent slightly, his feet dangling just above a street lamp. The upper part of Ben’s face was in shadow, but his mouth was set in a straight line, turning down slightly at the corners. The lamp below him sharply highlighted the tendons in his neck.

Ben had been on my mind over the holidays. Same as he was every time I saw him. He reminded me of myself at that age. We were both bookish. We both had a parent who just didn’t get us. And we were both the youngest of a dying race.

In my case I wasn’t that concerned about the decline of the hags. Every other hag I’d met was either mean or crazy. Or, in most cases, both. Stereotypes breed for a reason, and I understood the wicked witch one all too well. Would I have tried to save my mother if she’d zombified? I wasn’t sure. Maybe that made Ben a better person than me, or maybe just a dafter one.

It occurred to me that it was the last time I’d likely ever see Malcolm. And I’d called him an arse. And the last time I’d seen him alive I’d called him an asshole. If he was still alive, I wouldn’t have felt bad about it.

The cold was making my nose stream. I pulled a tissue out my backpack and blew noisily.

I was always last in. The NRTs cleared the house first. The photographers and Scene of Crime Officers followed the NRTs, then the investigators and the police sniffer, and finally me. I shivered. The cold was beginning to seep in under my coat.

Three police cars remained on the street. One was occupied. The woman inside was familiar, but I didn’t know her name. She was busy filling out the top page of a pre-printed pad. I walked over and tapped on the glass. She looked up and rolled down the window, raising her eyebrows.

‘Any chance I could wait in the car? It’s brass monkeys out here.’

Her eyes slid to the warts on my neck, and she wrinkled her nose. She shook her head, muttering something about health and safety, and rolled the window back up.

An uncharitable word came to mind. It had only been ten years since the restriction on non-humans joining the police was lifted. Attitudes had changed, but not by enough. I lifted my hand to knock again, then thought better of it. She had no obligation to let me in, and I had too much pride to beg. I settled for a dirty look and the thought of the pleasure it would give me to write a snotty email to her boss.

If I was lucky it wouldn’t be a long wait. One of the most dangerous misconceptions about zombies was that decapitation destroyed them. It didn’t, but it meant that every few years someone was bitten because they thought the head was safe. Without fail, they hid the head while they tried to figure out what to do. And when the bitten person then reanimated, the NRTs got to play hide and seek for any remaining body parts. You’d be surprised at the number of places a disembodied head can fit.