Zom-B Angels (14 page)

God
told Dr Oystein that the human race had become too violent and destructive. Bringing the dead back to life was the final straw. There had to be a reckoning, like when the Bible said
that He flooded the world. A thinning of the ranks. A cleansing.

The voice told Dr Oystein that there would be a plague of zombies in the near future. On a day of divine destiny, a war would break out between mankind and the living dead.

‘Are you saying God unleashed the zombies?’ I ask incredulously, unable to keep quiet any longer.

‘Of course not,’ Dr Oystein replies. ‘But God saw that scientists would conduct fresh experiments and create new strains of the zombie gene. And one day one of them would
accidentally or deliberately release an airborne strain which would sweep the globe and convert millions of humans into undead monsters. He could have spared us the agony if He had wished, but
honestly, B, can you think of any good reason why He should have intervened?’

‘Lots of innocent people died,’ I mutter.

Dr Oystein nods. ‘They always do. That is the nature of our world. But do you think it was a perfect society, that our leaders were just and good, that as a race we were not guilty of
unimaginable, unpardonable crimes?’

‘You can’t punish everyone for the sins of a few,’ Rage growls.

‘Of course you can,’ Dr Oystein says. ‘Just step outside and look around if you do not believe that. As a people, we offended our creator and turned on our own like jackals. We
soiled this world. Was the plague of zombies a harsh judgement? Perhaps. But unfair? I think not.’

Dr Oystein shakes his head when nobody says anything else, then continues.

He criss-crossed the world in the years to come, building up contacts among all sorts of officials. His first priority was to crack down on undead outbreaks, and to contain them when they
happened. With the help of his contacts, he kept the existence of zombies a secret. Rumours trickled out every so often, but nobody in their right mind paid any attention to them. Hollywood film
makers were paid to weave wild tales about the living dead, to turn them into movie monsters, like Dracula or the Mummy.

But no matter how hard he worked, the experiments continued. Nazi scientists in hiding created their own small zombie armies in the hope of launching a bid to control the world again. Some sold
their secrets to rich men or leaders in countries where power struggles were a way of life.

Dr Oystein experimented too. God had told him that he would need to fight fire with fire if he was to have any chance of redeeming the human race. The doctor was the first of what could be a
highly effective force of revitaliseds. If he could find a way to restore others, the world might regain a sliver of hope.

‘Although it repulsed me, I returned to my work,’ he says, hanging his head with shame. ‘If there was any other way, I would have seized it gladly, but there
wasn’t.’

‘What makes you think you’re any better than the rest of the creeps then?’ I sneer. ‘Maybe the airborne gene was created by one of
your
associates, using
technology that
you
pioneered.’

‘Perhaps,’ Dr Oystein nods. ‘But I do not think that is the case. I have learnt much about the gene over the decades, but the airborne strain was new to me. It is a destructive
strain, while my work has been focused on the positive possibilities, on the human mind and its restoration.

‘I finally figured out a way to create revitaliseds,’ he goes on. ‘I hoped to perfect a vaccine that would stop people returning to life when they were infected — if
zombies could only kill, not convert, they would be far easier to deal with. Failing that, I hoped to provide the undead with the ability to recover their wits, so that they could be reasoned
with.

‘Until that point I had experimented solely on corpses or on those who had been revived. But if prevention was to serve as the key to our survival, it meant I would have to
–’

‘– experiment on living people,’ Rage cuts in, beating Dr Oystein to the punch. He doesn’t look outraged, simply fascinated.

‘You’re sick,’ I snarl, but for once I’m not insulting Rage. My comment is directed at Dr Oystein. I rise and glare at him. ‘You’re just like the Nazis and
the scientists who were experimenting on the zom heads.’

‘I do not claim to be any nobler than them,’ Dr Oystein says softly. ‘I have done many dreadful things and you have every right to vilify me.’

‘Then why shouldn’t I?’ I snap. ‘You said I was an Angel. You offered protection and told me we could do good. Why should I accept the word of a man who experimented on
living people and probably killed more than a few in the process?’

‘Many have died at my hands over the years,’ he admits. ‘I see their faces every night, even though I don’t dream.’

‘So why should I pledge myself to you?’ I press. ‘Why shouldn’t I storm out of here and never look back?’

Dr Oystein shrugs. ‘Because I was successful,’ he whispers. ‘I found a way to revitalise zombies.’

Now it’s my turn to shrug. ‘So? Does that mean we should forgive you?’

Dr Oystein looks up at last. There’s no anger in his gaze, only misery. ‘I am not worthy of forgiveness, but I do think that I am worthy of your support.’

‘Why?’ I ask again, barking the question this time.

‘Because I created you,’ Dr Oystein says. And as I stare at him, trying to figure out what he means, he says, ‘Tell me, B, do you have a little c-shaped scar on your upper
right thigh?’

In the silence that follows, all I can do is stare at him, then through the glass walls of the tunnel at the sharks circling patiently, their wide mouths lifting at the corners, almost in
wicked, mocking smiles.

I’ve had the c-shaped scar since I was two or three years old. I was injected with an experimental flu vaccine. It worked a treat and I’ve never had so much as a
sniffle since. I sometimes thought it was odd that the vaccine hadn’t taken off — nobody else I knew had been vaccinated with it. I figured there must have been side effects which
I’d been lucky enough to avoid.

‘Haven’t you wondered why virtually all of the revitaliseds are teenagers?’ Burke asks softly.

I stare at him, thinking back. In the underground complex I never saw any adult revitaliseds. I assumed they were being held in a different section, that we’d been grouped together by
age.

Apart from Dr Oystein and Master Zhang, they’re all teenagers or younger here in County Hall too. Dr Oystein told me that adult revitaliseds were rare, but I never pushed it any further
than that. I’ve got so used to being around others my own age that it didn’t seem strange.

‘I developed the vaccine about forty years ago,’ Dr Oystein says. ‘It is unpredictable and does not work in everyone. Many who have been vaccinated do not recover their senses
when infected. Those who revitalise do so at different rates. The fastest has been eighteen hours. At six months, you are one of the slowest.’

‘See?’ Rage smiles. ‘You’re slow. It’s official.’

I ignore him and stay focused on Dr Oystein.

‘My intention was to have teams vaccinate every living person before the wave of reviveds broke across the world. But the vaccine was unstable. It could not be held in check indefinitely.
If a person was not bitten by a zombie, after fifteen or so years it turned on its host. The body broke down. The bones and flesh liquefied. It was swift – from start to finish, no more than
half a day – and incredibly painful.’

‘You’re telling me that if I hadn’t been attacked by zombies, I’d have ended up as a puddle of goo in another year or two?’ I gasp.

The doctor nods and I laugh bitterly.

‘You’re some piece of work, doc. The Nazis had nothing on you.’

He flinches at the insult.

‘But now that we’ve been infected . . .’ Rage says.

‘The vaccine will not harm us while it is fighting with the zombie gene,’ Dr Oystein says. ‘We are safe now that we have revitalised.

‘If I had known when the day of reckoning was due, I could have vaccinated as many people as possible,’ he continues. ‘But God never revealed the date to me. If I had
miscalculated, I could have wiped out the entire race by myself, no zombies required.’

Rage whistles softly. ‘That’s some crazy power. Were you ever tempted to . . . you know . . . just for the hell of it?’

We all stare at him.

‘Come on,’ he protests. ‘You guys were thinking the same thing. If you had the world in the palm of your hand, and all you had to do was squeeze . . .’

‘You’re a sick, twisted bastard,’ I sneer.

‘No,’ Dr Oystein says. ‘Rage is right. I
was
tempted. But not in the way he thinks. I had no interest in crushing nations. I was tempted because I was afraid. I knew
the terrors and hardships we must face, and I did not want to embrace such a future. It would have been easier to condemn mankind to a swift, certain end, to accept defeat and ensure that nobody
need suffer the agonies of a long, drawn-out war of nightmarish proportions. Death by vaccine would have been simpler, the coward’s way out.

‘I am various low, despicable things,’ Dr Oystein whispers, ‘but I do not think I am a coward. I am guilty of many foul crimes, but I have always accepted my responsibilities.
I ignored the pleas of my weaker self and remained true to my calling. If mankind is to perish, it will not be because I was found wanting.’

Dr Oystein rises and starts walking. The rest of us head after him. He moves faster than before, striding through the aquarium, leading us out into the open. On the riverbank he hurries to the
wall overlooking the Thames and bends over it as if about to throw up.

‘I’m sorry,’ he moans, but it’s unclear whether he’s apologising to us or the souls of the people he experimented on and killed over the course of his long and
dreadful life.

Dr Oystein stays facing the river for a couple of minutes while the rest of us stand back, waiting for him to recover.

‘This guy needs to see a shrink,’ Rage murmurs.

I turn to rip into him for being an insensitive pig, but I see by his expression that he wasn’t having a dig. The big, ugly lump looks about as pitying as he ever could.

‘I doubt if any ordinary professional could help him,’ Burke says softly. ‘This isn’t a normal complaint. To have endured all that he has . . . I’m stunned
he’s not a gibbering wreck.’

‘Do you believe everything he told us?’ I ask. ‘About Nazis, God, all that . . .’ I was about to say
crap
but decide that’s not the right word, ‘ . .
. stuff?’

‘We’ll discuss that later,’ Burke says and nods at Dr Oystein, who is turning from the river at last. He looks embarrassed.

‘My apologies. Sometimes the guilt overwhelms me. I know that I have done what was asked of me, but there are days when that does not seem like a justifiable excuse. God did not authorise
the experiments, the tests that went awry, the lives which I have sacrificed. I see no other way that I could have proceeded, but still I wonder . . . and fear.’

He sighs and glances up at the London Eye, turning as smoothly as ever, the pods shining brightly against the backdrop of the cloudy sky.

‘So why are all of your Angels teenagers?’ I ask, to draw him back to what he was talking about earlier. ‘Why didn’t you vaccinate adults too?’

‘I felt that children would be more appropriate,’ Dr Oystein says. ‘They are, generally speaking, more innocent and pure of heart than adults.’

‘You wouldn’t think like that if you’d gone to my school,’ I mutter, and share a grin with Mr Burke.

Dr Oystein smiles ruefully. ‘That was not the only factor. There were practical reasons too. Children were easier to vaccinate than adults — they received so many jabs that nobody
took notice of one more. And since their bodies were undergoing natural changes during growth, they were better equipped to contain the vaccine — children generally held out a few years
longer than grown-ups before succumbing to the side effects.

‘Also, I distrusted adults. They were set in their ways, less open to fresh ideas and change. I needed soldiers who would think nothing of their own lives, who would dedicate themselves
entirely to the cause. I decided that children were more likely to answer such a demanding call.

‘Every year my team vaccinated a selection from newborns to teenagers in cities, towns and villages across the world. Every time I looked at the files – and I made a point of
acknowledging each and every subject – I suffered a conflict of interests. I found myself hoping that the plague would strike soon, to spare the vaccinated children the painful death they
would have to endure if it did not, yet also wishing that it wouldn’t, because that would mean so many more people dying.’

Dr Oystein falls silent again, remembering some of the faces of the damned.

‘How many did you vaccinate each year?’ I ask.

‘Several thousand,’ he says. ‘Always in a different area, with a fresh team under a different guise, to avert people’s suspicions.’

‘What do you mean?’ Rage frowns.

‘One year we offered a cure for the flu,’ Dr Oystein explains. ‘The next year we promoted a measles vaccine. The year after something to help prevent AIDS. Each time we hid
behind a fake company or charity.’

‘So if you’ve been doing this for decades . . .’ I try to do the maths.

‘Hundreds of thousands,’ Dr Oystein says softly.

‘How the hell do you cover up that many deaths?’ I explode. ‘Especially if they melted down into muck. I never read about anything like that in the Sunday papers.’

‘As I already explained, I had contacts in high places,’ Dr Oystein says. ‘They clamped down on any talk that might have compromised our position.’

‘Still,’ I mutter, ‘
somebody
must have leaked word of what was going on.’

‘They did,’ Burke says. ‘It was all over the place, in self-published books and on the internet. I remember coming across articles back when I knew nothing about Dr Oystein or
his work. Like any sane person, I dismissed them. Who could believe stories of a drug that made people melt?’