ZOM-B 11 (10 page)

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 worked 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!’

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 facts. 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.’