Zom-B Angels (9 page)

‘Keep going until there is nothing left to destroy,’ Master Zhang says to the girl, then strides for the door, nodding at Carl and me to follow.

He leads us to a bare room that looks like it was once a conference room for high-flying businessmen. Any chairs and tables have been removed, though there are still some whiteboards on the
walls.

‘Each revitalised is different,’ Master Zhang says, wasting no time on chit-chat. ‘Our bodies react uniquely when we return to life. There are similarities common to all
– extra strength and speed – but nobody can judge the extent of their abilities until they test themself. Physical build is not a factor. Some of us have great potential. Others do
not.

‘We can fine-tune whatever skills we possess, but if you are found lacking at this stage, you will forever be limited by the restraints of your body. When you died, you lost the capacity
to improve on what nature provided you with. In short, your response to today’s test will decide your role within the Angels for the next few thousand years. So I suggest you apply yourself
as best you can.’

Master Zhang marches me to one end of the room, then tells me to make a standing jump. I crouch, tense the muscles in my legs, then spring forward like a frog. I hurtle almost two-thirds of the
way across the room, far further than any human could have ever jumped. I’m delighted with myself, but when I look at Master Zhang, he makes a so-so gesture.

‘Carl,’ he says and Carl copies what I did, only he sails past me and bounces off the wall ahead of us.

‘Does that mean I’ve failed?’ I ask bitterly.

‘No,’ Master Zhang said. ‘It simply means that if someone is required to leap across a great distance – for instance, from the roof of one building to another – we
will choose Carl or another like him.’

Next we step out into the corridor and I perform a running jump. I do better this time, although still nowhere near what Carl can do. Then Master Zhang times me racing up and down. He’s
pleased with my speed. ‘Not the fastest by any means, but quicker than many.’

We step back into the room and Master Zhang tests my sense of balance by having me stand in a variety of uncomfortable positions and hold the pose as long as I can. Then he tests my reflexes by
lobbing small, hard balls at me. Again he’s happy with my response, but far from overwhelmed.

We return to the gym and he tries me out with weights. I come up short on this one. Others are lifting weights around me and I can see that I don’t match up. I lift far more than I could
have when I was alive, but ultimately I fall low down the pecking order.

‘Do not look so upset,’ Master Zhang says as I step away from the weights, feeling defeated. ‘I am by no means the strongest person here, but that has never worked against me.
I taught myself how to deal with stronger opponents many years ago and my foes have yet to get the better of me.’

‘Have a lot of foes, do you?’ I laugh.

‘Yes,’ he says simply, not bothering to elaborate.

Then it’s back to the conference room, where Master Zhang has me face him. Carl watches from a spot near the door, grinning eagerly.

‘This is the part you have probably been looking forward to,’ Master Zhang says. ‘I am going to test your sharpness and wit. I want you to try to hit me, first with your fists,
then with your feet. You can use any move you wish, a punch, chop, slap, whatever.’

‘Shouldn’t we be in karate or boxing gear for this sort of thing?’ I ask.

‘No. We do not wear special clothes when we fight in the world outside, so why should we wear them here? I want to see how you will perform on the streets, where it matters.’

With a shrug, I eye up Master Zhang, then jab a fist at his nose. He shimmies and my fist whistles through thin air. I expected as much, and also guessed the way he would move, so even while
he’s ducking, I’m bringing up my other fist to hit him from the opposite side.

Master Zhang grabs my arm and stops my fist short of its target.

‘Good,’ he says, releasing me. ‘Again.’

I spend the next ten minutes trying to strike him with my fists, then ten trying to hit him with my feet. I fare better with my feet than fists, connecting with his shoulders and midriff a
number of times, and once – sweetly – with the side of his face. I don’t cause any damage but I can tell he’s impressed.

‘Rest a while,’ he says, taking a step back.

‘I didn’t think zombies needed rest.’

‘Even the living dead need rest,’ he says. ‘We are more enduring than we were in life, but our bodies do have limits. If we demand too much of ourselves, it affects our
performance. We can struggle on indefinitely, sluggishly, but our battles need to be fought on our terms. It is not enough to be dogged. We must be incisive.’

‘Who do we fight?’ I ask. ‘Mr Dowling and his mutants? Reviveds? The army?’

‘Dr Oystein will answer your questions,’ Master Zhang says. ‘I am here merely to determine how useful you might be to us and to help you make the most of your
talents.’

Master Zhang spends the next ten minutes throwing punches and kicks at me. I manage to duck or block many of them, but plenty penetrate and by the end of the session I’m stinging all over.
But it’s a good kind of pain and I don’t mind.

After opening up a small cut beneath my right eye, Master Zhang says, ‘That will be enough. Return tomorrow. I want to see how your cuts moss over.’

‘What do you mean?’ I ask.

‘We cannot heal as we could when we were alive,’ he explains. ‘Moss grows in places where we are cut, but it sprouts more thickly in some than in others. If the moss grows
thinly over your cuts, you will continue to lose blood when you fight, which will affect your performance, making you of little use to us.’

‘Nothing wrong with my moss,’ I say confidently. ‘Look, it’s already stitching the wound closed, I can feel it.’ I tilt my head backwards, so that he can see.

Master Zhang smiles thinly. ‘I believe that it is. But as I said, come back to see me tomorrow, and we will test it then.’

‘Assuming the moss grows thickly,’ I call after him as he turns to leave, ‘how did I do on the rest of the tests? Am I good enough to be a proper Angel with Carl and the
others?’

Master Zhang pauses and casts a slow look over me with his bloodshot left eye. I feel like I’m being X-rayed.

‘Physically, yes, my feeling is that you are, although there are a few more tests that you must complete before we can say for certain. Mentally?’ He looks unsure. ‘Most living
people fear death more than anything else, but our kind need not, since we have already died. So tell me, Becky Smith, what do you fear more than anything else now?’

I think about telling him that I don’t fear anything, but that wouldn’t be the truth. And I think about saying that I fear Mr Dowling, Owl Man and the mutants, but while I’m
certainly scared of the killer clown and his strange associates, they’re not the ones who gnaw away at my nerves deep down. I’m sure that if I’m not totally honest with Master
Zhang, he’ll pick up on the deception and it will go against me. So, even though I hate having to admit it, I tell him.

‘I’m afraid of myself,’ I croak, lowering my gaze to hide my shame. ‘I’ve done some bad things in the past, and I’m afraid, if I don’t keep a close
watch on myself every single day, that I might do even worse.’

There’s a long silence. Then Master Zhang makes a small clucking sound. ‘I think you will fit in here,’ he says.

And that marks the end of the first round of tests.

‘I told you it wouldn’t be exciting,’ Carl says as we head back to our room.

I grunt.

‘You’ll have to get used to the boredom,’ he continues. ‘We spend most of our time training. It sounds like it will be great, learning how to fight, and there
are
times when I learn a new move and it feels amazing. But for the most part it’s pretty dull.’

There’s no one in our room when we get there. Carl changes his shirt – there wasn’t anything wrong with the old one, he just wants to try something new – and we head to
the front of the building, out on to a large terrace overlooking the river. Carl doesn’t stop to admire the view, but hurries down the stairs and along the path.

‘Are we going to the London Dungeon?’ I ask, spotting a sign for it.

Carl gives me an odd look. ‘Isn’t the world grisly enough for you as it is?’

‘But the Dungeon’s fun,’ I laugh.

‘It used to be,’ he agrees. ‘Not so much now that there aren’t any actors to bring the place to life. We sometimes train down there, but we don’t really make use of
it otherwise. It’s not a fun place to hang out.’

‘Do the rides still work?’ I ask.

‘Yes,’ he says.

‘Come on. Let’s try them.’

‘Maybe later,’ he says, then heads for the old arcade centre. I could go and explore the Dungeon by myself, but I don’t want to be alone so, with a scowl, I follow him.

Most of the video games in the arcade still seem to be operational, but although a handful of Angels are hanging around, nobody’s playing. That seems strange to me until I recall my
advanced sense of hearing and the way bright lights hurt my eyes. I guess half an hour on a video game in my current state would be about as much fun as sticking my hand into a food blender.

Our lot are bowling. They have the lanes to themselves. Jakob is taking his turn as we approach. He knocks down the four standing pins and gets a spare.

‘Nice one,’ Shane says.

Jakob only shrugs. I’ve never seen anyone who looks as miserable as this guy. I wonder what it would take to make him smile.

‘How did the test go?’ Ashtat asks as we slip in beside her.

‘I aced it. Master Zhang said I was the best student he’d ever seen.’

‘Sure,’ she drawls. ‘I bet he got down on his knees and worshipped you.’

We grin at each other. We got off on the wrong foot, but I’m starting to warm to the Muslim girl, which is something I never thought I’d hear myself admit.

Shane hits the gutter and swears.

‘You’re lucky Master Zhang wasn’t here to see that,’ Carl tuts.

‘Why?’ I ask. ‘Don’t tell me he’s a master bowler too.’

‘It’s part of our training,’ Shane sighs, waiting for his ball to return. ‘He says bowling is good for concentration. Our eyes aren’t as sharp as they were, and no
amount of drops will ever change that. We have to keep working on our hand to eye coordination.’

‘Eye to hand,’ Carl corrects him.

‘Whatever,’ Shane mutters and throws again. This time he knocks down seven pins but he’s not happy. He flexes his fingers and glares at them as if they’re to blame.

Ashtat throws and gets a strike. Jakob steps up next, then pauses and offers me the ball.

‘Don’t you want to finish the game?’ I ask.

‘No,’ he whispers. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

I take the ball from him and test the holes. They’re too small for my fingers – I cast a quick glance at Jakob and note how unnaturally thin he is – so I put it back and find
one that fits. I take aim, step up and let the ball rip.

It shoots down the lane faster than I would have thought possible and smashes into the pins, sending them scattering in every direction. A few of them shatter and go flying across the adjacent
lanes.

‘Bloody hell!’ I gasp, shocked and dismayed. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . .’

I stop. The others are laughing. Even Jakob is smiling slightly. Shane high-fives the thin, bald kid, then slaps my back. ‘Don’t worry. That happens to most of us the first
time.’

‘We’re stronger than we look,’ Ashtat says. ‘We have to learn to control our strength. That’s another of the reasons we practise here.’

‘You could have told me that before I threw,’ I say sourly.

‘It wouldn’t have been as funny then,’ Carl giggles.

‘No,’ I smile. ‘I guess it wouldn’t.’

We move to another lane while Jakob clears up the mess and replaces the pins. It takes me a while to get the balance right – I throw the first few balls too softly, then hit the gutters
when I lob more forcefully – but eventually I find my groove. It’s tricky to be accurate because of my weak eyesight, but I can compensate for that by throwing a bit harder than I did
when alive.