ZOM-B Baby (5 page)

This is crazy. I know that even before I start. But hell, there’s no denying it’s fun! I haven’t had an adrenalin rush like this since I returned to consciousness. Well, OK, it’s not an actual adrenalin rush, since I doubt my body produces that any more. But it damn sure feels like it.

The rim of the wheel is thicker than I expected. A cable runs along the inside, good for gripping, but on the outside it’s pure steel which isn’t so accommodating.

At first it’s easy. I scuttle along, no problem with
my toughened flesh and bones. I laugh with delight, not bothered by the sunlight or what might happen to me if I fall, the gloom of the last week forgotten, focusing on nothing except my ascent.

Then it starts to get tricky. The higher I climb, the more gravity drags at me. From the ground the incline didn’t look too steep, but when you’re up here and following it, you get a fresh perspective. From about the quarter mark it’s like climbing at ninety degrees. I start to slip and sway in the breeze, which seems much stronger than it did a few minutes ago.

I struggle on, teeth gritted, refusing to look at the ground. Cuts open on both hands as the steel and cable slice into them when I slip. Thankfully my blood doesn’t flow as swiftly as it once did – it just seeps out slowly – or I’d have to stop. As it is, I can push on, pausing every so often to wipe the congealed blood from my palms.

I’m almost halfway up the wheel when I lose my grip completely. I fall with a cry that’s cut short when I slam into one of the support poles which connects with the central bar. I cling on desperately as my legs swing freely beneath me. I hear Rage whooping with glee — he must have paused at the perfect time to catch my big slip. I’d love to shoot him the finger but I don’t dare loosen my grip.

If I was human, I’d be done for. The wind would have been knocked from my sails, my muscles would be aching from the climb. Not being a Hollywood movie star, I doubt I’d be able to pull myself to safety. It would be the long drop for me.

But being dead has its advantages. I don’t breathe, and my body isn’t as confined by the laws of physics as it used to be. After dangling for a while, I haul myself up until I’m hanging across the bar. I wipe my hands dry, steady myself, grip the rim and start climbing again.

I’m just past the halfway mark when Rage shouts to me. ‘Oi! Smith!’ His voice is tinny, coming from so far away, but the wind carries it and my supersharp ears pick it up.

I take a firm hold and look across to where he’s
hanging opposite me. My eyes are less effective than my ears, so he’s only a vague blob in the distance. ‘What?’ I roar.

‘What are we gonna do now?’ he yells. ‘It would be easier if we shifted to the outside of the rim. If we stick to the inside, we’ll be hanging upside down the rest of the way.’

I’d been thinking about that myself. I was going to suggest we move to the other side, so we could crawl on top of the rim instead of dangle from its underside. But now that he’s getting cold feet, I don’t want to ease up. He was the dope who suggested this crazy challenge. I want to make him go through with it, even though that means me suffering as well.

‘If you want to back down, let me know,’ I roar cheerfully. ‘I won’t tell anyone you chickened out. Well, except for everyone we know.’

‘Screw you!’ he bellows. ‘I’m game if you are.’

‘Then what are you waiting for?’ I laugh and start climbing again.

It soon becomes clear that we really
are
mad to attempt this. As hard as it was before, it’s ten times
more difficult now. I’m hanging from the rim like a squirrel, but squirrels have tails, padded paws and the benefit of countless generations of instinct to draw upon. Humans were never meant to climb like this, not even undead buggers like me.

The hardest parts are where the bars to the inner circle connect. The rim bulges out in those spots and I have to ease around the protuberances. That was easy on the lower sections, but not when I’m hanging upside down and every muscle in my arms is stretched to snapping point.

I keep my feet hooked over the rim for as much of the climb as I can, dragging them along, feeling the steel and cable slice deeply into my flesh. Pain doesn’t hit you as much as it used to when you’re a zombie, but we’re not immune to it and I’m starting to really sting. I haven’t felt this rough since I staggered away from Trafalgar Square after my last encounter with Mr Dowling.

My feet keep slipping. Eventually, when I move into the last quarter of the climb, I unhook them and hang at full stretch, supported solely by my
hands. I was good on the monkey bars in playgrounds when I was a kid. I could swing across as often as I pleased, laughing at the others who couldn’t match me. Time to find out if I still have the old magic.

I inch forward, moving my hands one at a time, concentrating as I never have before. I don’t want to slip, and it’s got nothing to do with the threat of smashing my skull open or the possibility that Rage will beat me to the top. I need to prove to myself that I can do this. As ludicrous as it is, this has become important to me. I figure if I can do this, I can attempt just about anything. Maybe this is what I need to clear my head and haul me out of the miserable, indecisive pit that I’ve been rotting in this past week.

It feels like the climb is never going to end. I want to shut my eyes but I can’t. I want to take the strain from my arms but I can’t. I want to rest for a while but … You get the picture.

I spy Rage across from me. He hasn’t made it as far as I have. He’s struggling. He’s stronger than me but
a hell of a lot heavier too. In a situation like this, where weight comes into play, it’s good to be a slim snip of a girl.

I get a second wind (relatively speaking) when I see that I’m doing better than Rage. With something between a triumphant shout and a despondent groan, I force myself on, finding fresh strength somewhere deep inside me, ignoring the pain, physics, gravity, the whole damn lot.

Finally, when I’m sure I can’t go any further, I reach the highest point. I hang there for several long seconds, staring down at my feet and the drop beneath. I feel strangely peaceful. The pain in my arms seems to fade. If I fell right now and split my head open on a spoke, I could go happy into the great beyond.

But this isn’t a day for bidding my final farewell to the world. With a determined moan, I pull myself up, hook a leg over the rim, pause to let my arms recover, then search for the handles on the uppermost pod. Finding them, I haul myself up, almost scurrying compared to the slow pace of my previous
progress, and moments later, I’m lying on top of the pod, staring at the clouds in the sky, a BIG smile on my face, waiting for the slow, shamed Rage to join me.

Bloody
yes
, mate!

Rage crawls on to the roof of the pod about a minute later. He’s not huffing or puffing – with our redundant lungs we don’t do that any more – but his limbs are shaking, especially his arms, the same way mine are.

‘Sod me!’ he gasps, collapsing on to his back and covering his eyes with a weary, trembling arm.

‘No thanks,’ I smirk, then dig him in the ribs with my knuckles. ‘Who’s the queen of the castle and who’s a dirty rascal?’

‘Get stuffed,’ he barks.

‘Come on, you set the challenge. Don’t be a sore loser, just tell me who’s the queen and –’

‘Enough already,’ he growls. ‘You beat me fair and square. Happy?’

‘Ecstatic,’ I beam.

‘I don’t know how I made it,’ Rage mutters. ‘Those last few metres were hell. I just wanted to drop and end the agony.’

‘You’re too big for climbing,’ I chuckle. ‘Size matters but sometimes it’s better to be small.’

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I guess.’

We lie there a while longer, relaxing, ignoring the glare of the daylight and the itching it causes. Then the Eye starts slowly revolving again. Ivor either saw us make the top or else he decided enough was enough.

I get to my feet to have a good look around. It’s hard to see clearly without sunglasses to protect my eyes, but I force myself to turn and peer. Everything’s blurred to begin with, but things start to swim into focus (well, as much as they’re ever going to) as my eyes slowly adjust.

Rage stands up beside me. He doesn’t bother with the sights, just rolls his arms around, working out the kinks and stretching his muscles.

‘I bet we’ll ache like hell later,’ I note. ‘We might even have to go back into the Groove Tubes.’

‘Dr Oystein won’t let us,’ Rage says. ‘He’ll make us endure the pain. The Groove Tubes are for Angels who really need them, who get injured in the line of duty, not for thrill-seekers like us.’

‘Oh well,’ I smile, ‘I don’t care. It was worth it. I never thought I could have done something this amazing. You’re still a murderous git, but you made a good call.’

‘That’s what I’m all about,’ Rage says smugly. ‘Making good calls and helping people realise their ambitions. The Good Samaritan had nothing on me.’

‘He was bit more modest though.’

‘Screw modesty,’ Rage sniffs, then takes a step closer to me. ‘Now, speaking of making good calls, here’s another. B?’

I was looking off in the direction of Vauxhall, trying to see if there were any signs of life over there. When Rage calls my name, I turn to face him. My back’s to the river.

‘Enjoy your flight,’ Rage says.

And he pushes me off.

My arms flail. I open my mouth to scream. Gravity grabs hold. I fall from the pod and plummet towards the river like a stone.

I hit the water hard. It feels like slamming into concrete. The lights temporarily blink out inside my head and everything goes dark.

When consciousness flickers on again, I think for a few seconds that I’m properly dead, adrift in a realm of ghosts. There are sinuous shadows all around, encircling and breaking over me. I assume that my brain was terminally damaged in the fall. I turn slowly, at peace, glad in a way to be done with life and all semblance of it. I spot a glimmering zone overhead — the legendary ball of light which summons the spirits of the departed?

No, of course not. After a brief moment of awe, I realise the truth. I’m still in the land of the living and the living dead. The shadows are nothing more than the eddies in the water. And the light is coming from the sun shining on the Thames.

I howl mutely, water rushing down my throat, cursing Rage and this world which refuses to relinquish its hold on me. Then, with disgust, I kick for the surface.

I haven’t drifted far from the London Eye. I can still see it gleaming above me, turning smoothly. No sign of Rage but I hurl a watery insult his way regardless. Then I swim towards the bank and pull myself ashore close to a bridge. I lie on the pebbly, rubbish-strewn bank, next to the remains of a bloated corpse, and make myself throw up. Then I get to my legs – understandably shaky – and stagger to a set of steps, then up to the South Bank.

I slump to the ground in front of what used to be the Royal Festival Hall. There are some restaurants and shops at this level, all closed for business now. There’s also an open, ramped section where teenagers
used to practise on their rollerblades and skateboards. To my surprise and bewilderment, judging by the rumble of small, hard wheels, people are still using it.

I look up, wondering where the teenagers have come from, and how they dare take to the outdoors like this, when the area must be riddled with zombies. Then I realise they have nothing to fear from the zombies because they’re undead too.

There are at least five or six of them, maybe a few more. They have the blank expressions common to all reviveds, but some spark of instinct is urging them to act as they did when they were alive, and they trundle around the gloomy space on their skateboards, rolling down ramps, grinding along bars, slamming into the graffiti-covered walls.

The skateboarding zombies are nowhere near as graceful as they must have been in life. They fall often, clumsily, their hands and faces covered in scars, and they don’t try any sophisticated jumps or moves. But it’s still a strangely uplifting sight, and I start to clap stiffly, feeling somebody should applaud their efforts.

When they hear me clapping, the zombies instantly lose interest in their boards. The teenagers growl with hungry excitement and dart towards me, flexing their fingers, sniffing the air, thinking supper has come early.

They can’t see the hole in my chest, and I’m too tired to push myself upright, so I wave a weary hand in the air and they spot the bones sticking out of my fingertips. With some disappointed grunting sounds, they return to their patch, pick up the skateboards and start listlessly rolling around again, killing time until it’s night and they can set out in search of brains.

I watch the show for a few minutes, then make myself puke again and more water comes up. For once I’m glad I don’t have functioning taste buds — the water of the Thames was never the most inviting, but it’s worse than ever these days, stained with the juices and rotting remains of the bodies you often see bobbing along.

I’m still trembling with shock. My head is throbbing. I think several of my ribs are broken. My left eyelid is almost fully shut now and won’t respond to my commands. The fingers of both hands began to shake wildly when I stopped clapping and are spasming out of control.

I want to find Rage and rip his throat open, but in my sorry state I can’t go anywhere at the moment. I just have to sit here, suffer pitifully and hope that I recover.

After a while, the clouds part. The sunlight stings my flesh and hurts my eyes, but helps dry me off. The warmth revives me slightly and the shakes begin to subside. When my hands are my own again, I roll on to my front, groaning, wishing the fall had put me out of my misery. I lie on the pavement like a dead fish, steam rising from my clothes, feeling sorry for myself, plotting my revenge on Rage.

A shadow falls across me. I look up through my right eye and spot a familiar face. Speak of the Devil …

‘Have you clocked that lot?’ Rage mutters, staring at the skateboarding teenagers.

‘You’re dead,’ I gurgle.

‘Aren’t we all?’ he laughs, squatting beside me. ‘I half-hoped the fall would knock your brains out.’

‘Only half?’ I wheeze.

‘Yeah. Despite what you think, I don’t enjoy killing. I do it when necessary and don’t worry about it, but I never wanted to become a serial killer. I’m not out to break any records on that front.’

‘So why did you push me off?’ I snarl, sitting up and shaking my head to get rid of the water in my ears.

‘Making a point,’ he says. ‘I got sick of watching you mope around. Decided you needed a good, hard kick up the arse.’ Rage stands and starts rolling his arms again, still aching from the climb. ‘Dr Oystein would have done all he could to save you up there. If I’d told him what I was planning, he would have thrown himself between us and stood up for you. He’s not like me. He doesn’t think you’re worthless scum.’

‘That’s your opinion of me?’ I bristle.

Rage shrugs. ‘It’s my opinion of us all. I never
thought people were anything special. A grim, brutal, boring lot. You got the occasional interesting person, like those skateboarders over there — still cool, even in death. But most of us were only good for breeding, fighting and screwing up the planet.’

‘You’re some piece of work,’ I snort.

‘Just being honest,’ he smiles. ‘I’m a lot of bad things but I’m not a hypocrite. I always saw people for what they were, and I never thought that was very much. Dr Oystein, on the other hand, sees the good stuff where I see the bad. He wants to make heroes out of me, you, Ivor and all the rest. I don’t think he’s gonna get very far with that, but I respect the mad old bugger for trying.’

‘I’m sure he’d be delighted to hear that,’ I sneer, getting up to face Rage.

‘You need to accept the doc for what he is, or get the hell out of here,’ Rage says softly. ‘What I liked about you when we first met was that you stood up for your beliefs. You didn’t like the way we were experimenting on the reviveds, so you refused to play ball. If you really don’t trust Dr Oystein, you need to
do that again. I hate seeing you mope around. You’re better than that. Stronger than that.’

I stare at Rage, confused. He sounds like he’s genuinely trying to help me. Or maybe he just wants me out of the way because I can see through him, because I know he’s a threat.

‘Listen up,’ Rage says. ‘These are your options. You can come back with me to County Hall, quit moaning and be a good little Angel like the rest of us. Or you can bugger off and look for a home elsewhere. Choose.’

‘Screw you!’ I roar, finding my fiery temper again. ‘I don’t have to do what you tell me!’

Rage grins. ‘Are you gonna tell me I’m not the boss of you?’

I laugh despite myself. ‘Bastard,’ I mutter, shaking my head.

‘B,’ Rage says calmly, ‘I’m saying all this because I think of you as an equal. I wouldn’t bother with most of the others. They’re mindless sheep, like the zom heads were. You need to get with the programme or get lost. If you’re not happy here, go look for happiness
somewhere else. You know the set-up with Dr Oystein. If you can’t buy into it, get out now before you drive yourself mental.’

‘And go where?’ I mumble. ‘Who’ll look out for me apart from the doc and Mr Burke?’

‘That doesn’t matter,’ Rage says. ‘You’re not a child, so don’t act like one.’

‘I’m more of a child than an adult,’ I argue.

‘Nah,’ he says. ‘We’ve all had to grow up since we died. You can look after yourself. You survived on your own before you came to County Hall. You can survive on your own again.’

‘But I don’t want to,’ I whisper.

‘Tough. You’re acting like a sulky little girl. Nobody else will tell you to your face. I don’t know if they’re being diplomatic or if they’re afraid of losing you, given how few of us there are. But you’re not doing anyone any good like this. Be honest with me — does part of you wish you’d cracked your head open when I pushed you off the Eye? Were you tempted to not crawl out of the river, to just let it wash you away and dump you somewhere nobody could ever find you?’

I nod slowly, hating him for knowing me so well, hating myself for it being true.

‘It’s a big world,’ Rage says. ‘I’m sure there’s a place in it, even for a moody cow like you.’

He turns to leave.

‘Will you tell the others I said goodbye?’ I call after him.

‘No,’ he grunts without looking back.

I treat myself to a grim smirk. Then, accepting the decision which Rage has helped me make, I push to my feet and cast one last longing glance in the direction of the London Eye and County Hall. Snorting water from my nose, I turn my back on them both and head off into the wilderness, abandoning the promise of friendship and redemption, becoming just another of the city’s many lost, lonely, godforsaken souls.