Zom-B Angels
Also by Darren Shan
ZOM-B
ZOM-B UNDERGROUND
ZOM-B CITY
Coming soon . . .
ZOM-B BABY
First published in Great Britain in 2013 by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
A CBS COMPANY
Copyright © 2013 by Darren Shan
Illustrations © Warren Pleece
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
All rights reserved.
The right of Darren Shan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act,
1988.
Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
1st Floor
222 Gray’s Inn Road
London WC1X 8HB
Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney
Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi
A CIP catalogue copy for this book is available from the British Library.
HB ISBN: 978-0-85707-764-6
EBOOK ISBN: 978-0-85707-767-7
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual people, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
OBE (Order of the Bloody Entrails) to Phil Earle – gone, but only half forgotten!!
Edited with an angel’s touch by:
Venetia Gosling
Kate Sullivan
Darren Shan is guided along the straight and narrow by the Christopher Little Angels
THEN . . .
Becky Smith was at school the day the dead came back to life and took over the world. She tried to escape with a group of friends, but it wasn’t meant to be. Her heart
was torn from her chest and she became a zombie.
Several months later B recovered her senses in an underground military complex. The soldiers lumped her in with the zom heads, a pack of revitalised teenagers like her who had somehow regained
their minds. They were told by their captors that they had to eat brains to stay conscious, and had a life expectancy of just a couple of years.
B would probably have remained a prisoner for the rest of her days, if not for the intervention of a monstrous clown called Mr Dowling. He invaded with a team of mutants, set the zombies free
and killed many of the staff. B didn’t think he did it because he was pro-zombie — it looked to her like he did it for kicks.
Most of the zom heads were executed while trying to escape, but B made it out. She thought Rage might have got away as well. He was a self-serving bully who turned on his guards and proved just
as clinical and merciless as they had been, casually killing one of the scientists before setting off on his own and warning his fellow zom heads not to follow him.
B roamed the streets of London for a while, mourning the loss of the normal world. It was a city of the dead, dotted with just a handful of living survivors. Some had chosen to stay, but others
were trapped and desperately searching for a way out.
When B heard that the army was mounting a rescue operation, she went to offer herself to them, figuring they might be able to use her DNA to help other zombies recover their minds. But the
soldiers saw her as a threat and tried to kill her. Once again the killer clown saved her. He slaughtered the humans, then asked her if she wanted to join him. B could think of nothing worse than
teaming up with Mr Dowling, his creepy mutants and an eerie guy with owl-like eyes who had shown an interest in her even before the zombies attacked. She told him to stick his offer.
Wounded, bewildered and alone, B wandered across the river and staggered into an old building, County Hall, once the home of local government, now a deserted shell. At least that was what it
looked like. But as B stared out of a window at the river, a man called to her by name and said he had been waiting for her.
ONE
I whirl away from the window that overlooks the Thames. A man has entered the room through a door which I didn’t notice on my way in. He’s standing in the middle of
the open doorway, arms crossed, smiling.
My survival instinct kicks in. With a roar, I hurl myself at the stranger, ignoring the flare of pain in my bruised, broken body. I curl my fingers into a fist and raise my hand over my head as
I close on him.
The man doesn’t react. He doesn’t even uncross his arms. All he does is cock his head, to gaze with interest at my raised fist. His smile never slips.
I come to a stop less than a metre from the man, eyeing him beadily as my fist quivers above my head. If he’d tried to defend himself, I would have torn into him, figuring he was an enemy,
as almost everybody else in this city seems to be. But he leaves himself open to attack and continues to smile.
‘Who the hell are you?’ I snap. He’s dressed in a light grey suit, a white shirt and purple tie, and expensive-looking leather shoes. He has thin hair, neatly combed back,
brown but streaked with grey. Calm brown eyes. Looks like he’s in his forties.
‘I am Dr Oystein,’ he introduces himself.
‘That supposed to mean something to me?’ I grunt.
‘I would be astonished if it did,’ he says, then extends his right hand.
‘You don’t want to shake hands with me,’ I sneer. ‘Not unless you want to end up with a taste for brains.’
‘I was an adventurous diner in my youth,’ Dr Oystein says, his smile widening. ‘I often boasted that I would eat the flesh or innards of just about any creature, except for
humans. Alas, ironically, I can now eat nothing else.’
I frown and focus on his fingers. Bones don’t stick out of them the way they poke out of every other zombie’s, but now that I look closely, I see that the flesh at the tips is
broken, a small white mound of filed-down bone at the centre of each pink whorl.
‘Yes,’ he says in answer to my unvoiced question. ‘I am undead like you.’
I still don’t take his hand. Instead I focus on his mouth. His teeth are nowhere near as jagged or as long as mine, but they’re not the same as a normal person’s either.
Dr Oystein laughs. ‘You are wondering how I keep my teeth in such good shape, but there is no magic involved. I have been in this lifeless state a lot longer than you. One develops a knack
for these things over time. I was brought up to believe that a gentleman should be neatly groomed and I have found myself as fastidious in death as I once was in life.
‘Please take my hand, Becky. I will feel very foolish if you do not.’
‘I don’t give a monkey’s how you feel,’ I snort, and instead of shaking his hand, I listen closely for his heartbeat. When I don’t detect one, I relax slightly.
‘How do you know my name?’ I growl. ‘How could you have been expecting me? I didn’t know that I was coming to County Hall. I wandered in randomly.’
Dr Oystein shakes his head. ‘I have come to believe that nothing in life is truly random. In this instance it definitely was no coincidence that you wound up here. You were guided by the
signs, as others were before you.’
I think back and recall a series of spray-painted, z-shaped symbols with arrows underneath. I’ve been following the arrows since I left the East End, sometimes because they happened to be
pointing the way that I was travelling, but other times deliberately.
‘Z for zombie,’ Dr Oystein says as he sees my brain click. ‘The signs mean nothing to reviveds, but what curious revitalised could turn a blind eye to such an intriguing
mystery?’
‘You know about reviveds and revitaliseds?’
‘Of course.’ He coughs lightly. ‘In fact I was the one who coined the terms.’
‘Who are you?’ I whisper. ‘
What
are you?’
Dr Oystein sighs. ‘I am a scientist and teacher. A sinner and gentleman. A killer and would-be saviour. And, if you will do me the great honour, I would like to be your friend.’
The mysterious doctor waves his extended arm, once again inviting me to accept his hand. And this time, after a brief hesitation, even though I’m still suspicious, I lower my fist, uncurl
my fingers and shake hands with the politely-spoken zombie.
‘You have a strange accent,’ I remark as Dr Oystein releases my hand. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Many places,’ he says, slowly circling me, examining my wounds. ‘My father was English but my mother was Norwegian. I was born in Norway and lived there for a while. Then my
parents moved around Europe – my father had itchy feet – and I, of course, travelled with them.’
I try not to jitter as the doctor slips behind me. If he’s been concealing a weapon, he’ll be able to whip it out and strike. My shoulders tense as I imagine him driving a long knife
between them. But he doesn’t attack, just continues to circle, and soon he’s facing me again.
‘I heard that your heart had been ripped out,’ he says. ‘May I see?’
‘How do you know that?’ I scowl.
‘I had contacts in the complex where you were previously incarcerated. I know much about you, but I hope to learn more. Please?’ He nods towards my top.
With a sigh, I grab the hem of my T-shirt and lift it high, exposing my chest. Dr Oystein stares at the cavity on the left, where my heart once beat. Now there’s just a jagged hole, rimmed
by congealed blood and a light green moss.
‘Fascinating,’ the doctor murmurs. ‘We zombies are all freaks of nature, each a walking medical marvel, but one tends to forget that. This is a reminder of our ability to defy
established laws. You are a remarkable individual, Becky Smith, and you should be proud of the great wound which you bear.’
