ZOM-B Baby (7 page)

I glance at HMS
Belfast
as I’m crossing the bridge, remembering the last time I wandered past. There were people on-board then, heavily armed, and they opened fire as soon as they saw me. I’m too far away to see if they’re still there, but I’ve no wish to go check. Hostile hotheads with guns are best left to their own devices.

As I draw close to the Tower of London, I recall the Beefeater who tackled me when I tried to sneak past. I wonder if he’s still guarding the entrance, demanding a ticket from anyone who wants to enter.
I bet he is. In an odd way I feel sorry for him. I’d like to take him some brains, a little surprise gift. I examine the corpses littered across the bridge, but their skulls have been scraped clean. Oh well, maybe another time.

I slowly make my way towards Whitechapel, then up Brick Lane. It feels like years since I was last here, even though it can’t be more than … what? Two months or so, and I spent a good deal of that in the Groove Tube. I blame my skewed perception on not being able to sleep. Time moves much more sluggishly when you can’t drop off at night.

I come to the Old Truman Brewery. The steel door is locked and there’s no sign of life inside. But then there wouldn’t be. Its artist-in-residence might be a God-obsessed nutter like Dr Oystein, but he’s smart enough to keep a low profile when at home. If he was in – which he probably isn’t, since the sun’s been up for quite a while and he’s an early starter – I wouldn’t know it from out here.

I don’t knock on the door or bellow the artist’s name. I could attract company if I did. Instead I
lower myself to the ground, sit by the door and wait, patient as a spider. It might be a waste of time – a zombie might have snagged him ages ago – but I’ve nothing better to be doing.

The day passes slowly. I miss Master Zhang – time flew by when I was training with him – and the Angels. Even a sneering match with Rage was preferable to sitting on my own on a deserted street all day.

I don’t see any other living or undead creatures, except for some rats who give me a wide berth. And insects of course. Lots and lots of insects. The streets are awash with them. Zombies have no interest in ant or cockroach brains, so they don’t hunt them. They’re not creeped out by insects either – it takes a lot to startle a walking corpse – so they don’t bother stamping on them or doing anything else to keep them in check.

I pass the hours counting the different types of insects that I see. I lose track a few times, until eventually I give up altogether. Then, late in the afternoon, I spot a man walking along, lugging an easel and whistling softly. I bet he doesn’t know that
he’s whistling. He must be doing it subconsciously, unaware of the noise he’s making. Even a soft whistle like that could bring a pack of zombies down on him, daylight or not.

He’s almost at the door before he spots me. As soon as he does, he yelps, drops the easel and turns to flee.

‘It’s all right, Timothy,’ I call. ‘It’s me, B.’

He pauses and looks back uncertainly. ‘Mee-bee?’

‘No, you dope.’ I stand, groaning as fresh pain flares in my battered bones. ‘It’s me — B. Becky Smith. Remember?’

Timothy’s expression clears. ‘Of course. B Smith, the talking zombie. I’m so delighted that you’re still going strong. How are you? What have you been up to?’

Timothy bounds forward, smiling widely, hand outstretched. He’s wearing the same sort of clothes as before, yellow trousers, a purple shirt, a tweed jacket. His brown hair is even longer than when I last saw him, shot through with streaks of paint. His eyes are still swamped by terribly dark circles in his long, thin face.

‘You don’t want to shake hands with me,’ I tut. ‘I’m not safe.’

He comes to an immediate stop. ‘Oh, that’s right. I was so excited to see you, I forgot. Silly me.’ He lowers his hand and chuckles. ‘As you can probably tell, I haven’t spoken to anyone since we last met. I’m desperate for company. The painting keeps me going, but there’s nothing like a good old bit of gossip to really stir the senses.’

Timothy retrieves his easel and checks to make sure it hasn’t been broken.

‘I had hoped to see you sooner than this,’ he says, trying to phrase it lightly. ‘I thought you might come and visit me. When you didn’t, I assumed you had either been welcomed with open arms by the soldiers you went off in pursuit of, or had been mown down by them.’

‘The latter,’ I grimace. ‘They opened fire when they realised I was undead, even shot a missile at me from a helicopter.’

‘But you survived and escaped?’ Timothy claps enthusiastically. ‘Top-drawer! Where have you been
since then? Why didn’t you come back? I’ve painted some marvellous images. I’d love to share them with you.’

‘I’ve been busy,’ I mutter. ‘Things took a strange turn. Have you been over to County Hall since you started painting?’

‘A few times,’ he nods. ‘I sketched it from the north bank of the river.’

‘You should wander south. You’d find a whole lot of interesting stuff to paint.’

‘That sounds intriguing,’ he purrs. ‘I look forward to hearing all about it. You are staying, aren’t you? For a while at least?’

‘If I’m welcome, yeah.’

‘Of course you’re welcome,’ Timothy booms, bouncing to the door and getting out his key. ‘And you aren’t the only one with news to share. I’ve played host to a most unique visitor since our paths last crossed. I’ll have to introduce you, see what your opinion is, if you can make any more sense of it than I have.’

I squint at him. ‘I thought you said you hadn’t been talking to anyone since I left you.’

‘I haven’t,’ he smirks. ‘This guest isn’t much of a one for talking. But I think you’ll be fascinated nevertheless. And who knows, maybe you’ll manage to draw a response of some sort. I believe you might have more in common with the strange little dear than I have.’

He laughs at my confused expression, then throws open the door and ushers me inside, politely asking me to wipe my feet on the way.

Timothy Jackson is an artist who survived the zombie attacks. Rather than lie low afterwards or flee the city as so many others did, he decided to make paintings of the downfall of London. Like Dr Oystein, he thinks he has been hand-picked by God, except in his case the Almighty only wants him to record images of the mayhem, not put a stop to it.

Once Timothy has stowed his equipment, he leads me upstairs, through a room of mostly blank canvases, to one crowded with finished works. It’s even
more jam-packed than it was the last time I was here. There’s barely space to move.

‘You’ve been busy,’ I note.

‘Yes,’ he says with passion. ‘I feel like I’ve really hit my stride these last few weeks. I’m getting faster, without having to compromise my style. Here, look at this.’

He shows me a large painting of a mound of bodies stacked in a heap, St Paul’s Cathedral rising behind them in the distance. Many of the faces are vague blobs and splashes of paint, but he’s paid close attention to detail on a few of them, and also to the cathedral.

‘Two days to complete,’ he says proudly. ‘That would have been at least a week’s work just a couple of months ago, and I doubt I could have captured the expressions as clearly as I did. I’m improving all the time. Another year and who knows what I might be capable of.’

‘How did the bodies end up in a pile like that?’ I ask, staring at the morbid painting. ‘Did you gather them together?’

‘Certainly not,’ Timothy huffs. ‘I paint only what I find. I never stage a scene. That would be cheating.’

‘Then how …?’ I ask again.

‘They were zombies,’ Timothy says softly. ‘They’d been shot, I assume by soldiers or hunters. If by soldiers, I imagine they stacked the bodies that way in order to come back and incinerate them at some point in the future. If by hunters, I suppose they did it so that they could pose for photos in front of their kills.’

‘Sometimes I think that your kind are worse than mine,’ I growl, recalling my own brush with the American hunter, Barnes, and his posse. ‘I’ve no problem with survivors killing zombies because of the threat we pose, but doing it for sport is sick.’

‘I agree,’ Timothy says. ‘Humans are far more dangerous than the undead. I keep my head down when I hear gunfire. I know where I stand with zombies, but I never know what to expect from the living.’

Timothy heads for the larder, washing his hands along the way, and prepares a simple meal for
himself, cold beans on bread, some tinned carrots and a glass of red wine to wash it all down.

‘Why don’t you heat the food?’ I ask.

‘Zombies might pick up the smell,’ he explains. ‘I avoid cooking when I can. On those days when I simply
must
have a hot meal, I set up a barbecue in a park or public square and cook a big lunch. I tried cooking in a restaurant’s kitchen once and was almost caught. I only barely got out alive.’

Timothy has a mouthful of wine after he tosses away the tins, before tucking into his meagre meal. He closes his eyes dreamily, savouring the taste, then cocks an eyebrow at me. ‘Are you sure you won’t share a glass?’

‘Apart from brains, I can’t process anything,’ I tell him. ‘Liquids run clean through me. If I had any of that, I’d be sitting in a puddle by the end of the night.’

Timothy clears his throat. ‘Ah. That might explain … I don’t wish to be rude, but you might want to …’ He wags a finger at me.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘When I was coming up the stairs behind you, I couldn’t help but notice that the back of your trousers seemed rather damp.’

My right eyelid flies wide open. (The left lid still doesn’t work properly.) I feel behind and, sure enough, my fingers come away soaking.

‘Damn it! I fell into the Thames yesterday and swallowed a load of water. I puked up most of it but obviously not all. Sorry about this.’

‘No need to apologise,’ Timothy says. ‘We all have our crosses to bear. Can I be of any assistance? There are plenty of towels and sheets here. If you wish, I could fashion you a …’

‘… nappy?’ I growl.

Timothy gulps and smiles sheepishly.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ I chuckle. ‘A wet bum is the least of my worries. I’ll be happy with a towel to sit on, if that’s all right with you.’

‘Absolutely.’ Timothy hurries off and comes back with two thick towels which he carefully places on a plastic chair. He waits for me to sit and give him the OK before taking his own seat and tucking into his
food with a plastic knife and fork that he probably picked up in a takeaway.

We chat as Timothy eats. He asks me where I went when I left him and I talk him through my trip to the West End, my run-in with Barnes and the other hunters, Sister Clare and her mad Order of the Shnax, their gruesome finale in Liverpool Street, all the rest. I hesitate when I get to the Trafalgar Square part of the story, finding it hard to talk about even now.

‘The soldiers drove you away?’ Timothy asks sympathetically.

‘No. They tried to kill me. They would have too – they had me pegged – except for Mr Dowling and his mutants.’

I expect Timothy to look blank, but to my surprise he knows what I’m talking about. He was working on his last slice of bread, but now he lays it down and stares at me. ‘You’ve seen the mutants?’

‘Yeah.’

His voice drops. ‘And the clown?’

‘Oh yeah. That’s Mr Dowling.’

‘You know his name?’ Timothy sounds amazed.

‘Of course. There’s a big badge on his chest with his name on it.’

‘Really? I never got that close to him. And the man with the eyes? Do you know him too?’

I make a growling noise. ‘Him especially. He paid me a home visit back before all the madness started. I call him Owl Man. You’ve seen him too?’

Timothy nods, then stands and scurries away from the table, beckoning for me to follow. He leads me back to the room of finished canvases and roots through a pile stacked against one of the walls. I’d find it hard to distinguish between them since it’s so dark – the windows are boarded over – but his eyes must have adjusted to the gloom over the months he’s spent living and working here.

‘I hung this up when I finished it,’ he mumbles as he searches, ‘but it gave me the shivers, so I took it down again. Those eyes followed me every time I passed, and not in a good way.’

He produces a medium-sized canvas and carries it to one of the rooms with no windows, the only
places in the building where he dares turn on lights at night. He sets the painting down and stands back to study it, then slides aside to make space for me.

I don’t recognise any of the buildings, just plain office blocks that could be anywhere in London. But there’s no mistaking the horrific clown at the centre of the painting, Mr Dowling in all his dreadful finery. I’m familiar with the mutants surrounding him too, in their standard hoodies, with their rotting skin and yellow eyes.

And there’s Owl Man, tall and thin, except for a ridiculously round pot belly. He has white hair and pale skin, but doesn’t appear to be deformed in any other way. Except for his eyes, the largest I’ve ever seen, at least twice the size of mine. They’re almost totally white, but with an incredibly dark, tiny pupil at the heart of each.

‘If I hadn’t seen him in the flesh, I wouldn’t have believed his eyes could have been that big,’ I whisper.

‘I know,’ Timothy says. ‘I almost made them smaller, to make them appear more in keeping with
the size of his face, but I try not to distort reality when I paint.’

‘What were they doing?’ I ask.

‘Just talking. At least the man with the eyes was talking. The clown didn’t seem to say much.’

‘He can’t speak. He communicates with his mutants by making squeaking noises which they can interpret.’

Timothy stares at me. ‘You seem to know a lot about them.’

‘Our paths have crossed a few times.’

I study Mr Dowling and Owl Man. The clown is the more frightening of the two, but Owl Man’s eyes are unsettling — as Timothy said, they seem to follow me when I move. I wouldn’t want to run into either of those eerie men on a dark night. Or a sunny day, come to that.

‘Where did you see them?’ I ask, turning away from the painting and trying to put it from my thoughts.

‘Somewhere in the City,’ Timothy says. ‘I was wandering as normal, saw them in the distance and
decided after one look that they weren’t the sort of people I’d like to get better acquainted with. I managed to sneak close enough to sketch them. They didn’t hang around for very long. As soon as they left, I hurried back here and worked up the painting. I didn’t want to forget any of the finer details.’

‘When was this?’

He has to think. ‘Not long after you left. Maybe a week or so after.’

‘Have you seen them since?’

He shakes his head. ‘I haven’t been looking either. There are some things which even I shy away from. I’m determined to capture this city in all its nightmarish glory, but I’ve a feeling I wouldn’t last long if that clown and his crew were aware of me. I doubt they’d be as easy to shake off as the zombies if they gave chase.’

‘You’ve got that right,’ I sigh. ‘They let me go for some reason, but if they’d wanted to stop me, I don’t think I could have done a hell of a lot about it.’

‘Do you know anything else about them?’
Timothy asks. ‘Where they came from, what they are, what they might be planning?’

‘No.’ I chuckle sickly. ‘But I know a man who does. At least he thinks he does. You’re not the only guy working for God in London. And if this other prophet is to be believed, that clown is your direct opposite. If you were sent by God to paint the city as you find it, that nasty bugger was sent by the Devil to paint it black.’

Timothy gawps at me, lost for words. I laugh at his expression and shake my head. ‘Come on, let’s go back to the kitchen. I’ll tell you all about it while you finish your food. Those creeps aren’t worth missing a meal over.’