Zom-B Mission (12 page)

I wait till last, then smile at Vinyl. ‘Sorry again about your mum and dad. I liked them, especially old man Vinyl and his crazy thing for records.’

‘Yeah, well,’ he shrugs, looking away.

‘I hope it works out for you here. I’ll try to come again, but I don’t know if Dr Oystein will let me.’

‘I’m sure our paths will cross at some point,’ he says warmly.

To my surprise
my lower lip starts to tremble.

‘You’re not gonna cry, are you?’ Vinyl growls.

‘I’m a zombie,’ I remind him. ‘I can’t. But if I was alive . . . yeah, I think I’d treat myself to some waterworks. It’s as good a time as any for tears.’

‘You’ve turned into a wimp,’ Vinyl smiles. ‘The B Smith I knew would never have blubbed like a baby.’

‘You’re wrong,’ I say softly, remembering
all the nights I cried myself to sleep after Dad had beaten me or my mum. ‘I just would have hidden my soft side and never admitted it. But I’m not bothered now. The living dead have nothing to hide.

‘Look after yourself, Vinyl. Stay one step ahead of the monsters.’

‘You too, B,’ he sighs.

As Vinyl waves, I take a short run at the edge and launch myself from the wall, bidding farewell
to New Kirkham, literally throwing myself back into the world of bloodshed, death and zombies beyond.

NINETEEN

I land in a clear spot, and though my feet sting a bit, I don’t injure myself. As I stand, zombies swarm round me, growling, sniffing, opening their mouths to tear into my skull and get at my brain. Then they realise I’m like them and they withdraw, disappointed. One woman runs her fingers round the rim of the moss-encrusted hole in my chest, just to be sure.

We cut gently
through the ranks of the undead, saying nothing, acting as if we’re the same as any other zombie. There are some houses scattered nearby. We’d like to seek shelter – we’ve been exposed to the sun a lot over the last couple of days and we’re suffering, even though we’re covered in thick clothes and wearing hats or hoods – but every house is packed with zombies, waiting for night to fall.

We push on, back the way we came, over the hill. A few hours into our march, we come to some trees, where we can rest in the shade. We all lie down and start removing our clothes to air our skin. I’m not sunburnt but I’m itchy as hell. I’d love to scratch but I can’t, not with my fingerbones—I’d rip the flesh apart.

‘This is what I hate about these missions,’ Conall grunts,
peeling off a pair of thermals which he was wearing beneath his trousers. ‘It would be much easier if we could do them at night.’

‘Yeah,’ Pearse says, ‘but the night world’s a lot harder on the living than the day world is on us.’

‘I know. I’m just saying.’ Conall shuffles clear of the thermals, then fishes a backscratcher out of the rucksack he was carrying.

‘Where’d you get that?’
I cry.

‘I never leave home without one,’ he grins.

‘Have you got a spare for me?’

‘Nope.’

‘You could have warned us, so that we could have brought our own,’ I growl.

Conall shrugs. ‘What am I, your keeper?’

‘You’ll pick up ideas as you go along,’ Pearse says. ‘It’s all about what you learn, not what you get taught.’

‘Hark at Yoda,’ I grumble, looking for a twig to poke
myself with.

We rest beneath the cover of the trees, discussing New Kirkham, wondering what the future holds for the people there. Rage and Shane work out, doing pull-ups on the branches, climbing the trees, racing each other, seeing who can go highest the fastest.

I lie back and listen to birdcalls. They should send a shudder down my spine, given what happened with Liz, but to my surprise
I find the noises soothing. The bird wasn’t to blame for what it did. I’d have to be pretty surly to hold a grudge, especially given the fact that I’ve caused a lot more damage in my time than that bird ever will.

As I’m relaxing, allowing myself a bitter-sweet smile, the birdsong is drowned out by the sound of engines in the near distance, big cars or trucks. We all fall silent. We’re not
used to such noises. They’re a reminder of our past, when the roads were always alive with traffic during the day.

‘Who do you think it is?’ Shane asks no one in particular.

‘Probably soldiers,’ Carl says. ‘Heading from one base to another, or to check on a compound.’

‘They’re making a lot of noise,’ Ashtat says, concerned. ‘It will draw reviveds down upon them.’

‘They’ll be
armed to the eyeballs,’ Rage says. ‘I’m sure they can deal with the attacks. They wouldn’t be storming around so blatantly if they couldn’t.’

The noise increases then dies away suddenly. The birds start chirping again and our tension begins to fade.

Shane and Rage resume their chase and spend the next few minutes racing around after each other. Shane scampers up the trunk of another
tree and laughs at Rage as he loses his grip and falls off. ‘Stick to the ground, landlubber,’ he cackles.

‘Get stuffed,’ Rage grunts, picking himself up. ‘You have an unfair advantage. With your extra-sharp bones you can dig in deeper than me.’

‘They’ve got nothing to do with it,’ Shane crows. ‘It’s all down to skill. I’m as agile as a . . .’ He stops and squints at something in the
distance. ‘B,’ he says hesitantly, ‘that’s not your dog over there, is it?’

‘What are you ranting about?’ I scowl, sitting up and peering round. ‘I can’t see anything.’

‘There,’ Shane says, dropping from the tree to point.

I get to my feet and put on my sunglasses. As my focus improves, I spot what Shane has seen and my forehead crinkles with confusion.

It’s a sheepdog, like
the one I saw in Hammersmith and the East End. It’s standing in the shade of a tree a long way off. I can’t tell from here if its hair is stained with blood like the dog I saw before.

‘That can’t be the same mutt,’ Carl mutters, nudging up beside me.

‘But it looks the same,’ Ashtat says. ‘And there are so few surviving dogs . . . What are the chances that we would spot a different sheepdog
so soon after seeing one in London?’

‘Maybe it
is
the dog we saw before,’ I murmur. ‘Maybe it caught my scent and followed us.’

‘All the way out here?’ Rage snorts. ‘Through zombie-infested territory, so far from its lair? Why would a dog do something like that?’

I shrug. ‘Maybe it likes me.’

Rage laughs. ‘She thinks she’s Dr Dolittle.’

‘See if it will come to you,’ Jakob
says as I give Rage the finger. He looks a bit happier than normal, though it’s always shades-of-miserable with Jakob.

I gaze at the others uncertainly. ‘Should I try?’

‘What are you asking us for?’ Rage jeers.

‘Give it a go,’ Carl smiles. ‘I know you said you don’t like dogs, but the rest of us do. If it comes when you call, we’ll take care of it. I’d love to have a pet. It could
become our mascot.’

I actually like dogs. I just got nervous in Hammersmith because it seemed strange that I should run into the same dog again after so many months. I should be even more nervous now – assuming it’s the same dog – but I’m not. Maybe it’s the sunshine, or the fact that we completed our mission successfully, but the dog doesn’t bother me any more.

I edge into the sunlight,
smiling broadly, holding my hands behind my back. ‘Here,’ I call, clicking my tongue against the roof of my mouth—not as easy as it once was, now that I lack saliva. ‘Come to B. I won’t hurt you. Are you the same dog from London? Have you followed me all this way? Do you want someone to play with? Are you lonely?’

The dog barks as I advance. I stop and try to widen my smile further. I remove
my glasses too, so that it can see my eyes. The dog looks behind, as if checking to make sure that nobody’s sneaking up on it. It barks again, softly, the sort of questioning yap that dogs make when they think they recognise someone but aren’t sure.

‘Here,’ I call again, taking another step towards it. ‘Come to B. No need to be afraid. I won’t hurt you. I’ll be your friend. You can trust
me, honest.’

The dog shoots off. I reach out after it, wanting to call its name, but I don’t know what it is.

Rage laughs. ‘So much for that.’

My smile fades. I stare after the departed dog. It’s already vanished from sight into the thick undergrowth surrounding the trees where it was standing. I have the uneasy feeling that I’m being watched. I’m sure it’s my imagination, but it
troubles me regardless. I turn slowly, replacing my prescription sunglasses, trying to pierce the shadows.

‘What are you doing?’ Carl asks.

‘I’m not sure. I thought . . .’ I shrug, not wanting to admit my unease, sure that the others would laugh and accuse me of worrying about bogeymen. Then I reach a snap decision. ‘You guys wait here. I’m going after the dog.’

‘Don’t, B,’ Jakob
says. ‘You’ll scare it off for good.’

But I ignore him and race ahead, brushing past the trees, ploughing through the bushes, sniffing the air for the canine’s musky scent.

TWENTY

I can’t see the dog but I can smell it, a thick, warm, hairy smell. Then, as I draw closer, I hear it panting. I slow down, not wanting to spook the creature. I look around as I pad after it, scanning the trees for signs of life, still feeling uneasy, as if someone has been observing me. But there’s nobody there.

This is silly. I should leave the dog to its own devices. It
hasn’t done us any harm. Jakob was right. If it spots me coming after it, the poor thing will drop a log and run for its life. If it’s the same dog we saw in London, and has been trailing us all this time, it will sever connections forever and that’s the last I’ll see of it.

But something draws me on. I have an itch and it’s not from the sun. There’s something wrong about this. I can’t put
my finger on it, but I’ve got to investigate. I feel sure that there’s more to the dog situation than meets the eye.

The ground angles upwards ahead of me. The area is pockmarked with hills. I don’t think this is a proper forest, just some park with a lot of trees which has run wild since people stopped tending it.

I spot the dog cresting the hill. I expect it to pause, look back and
catch sight of me, but instead it picks up speed and carries on, barking twice with apparent excitement.

I slow and stare at the place where the dog disappeared from view. My feeling that something is wrong has strengthened. Part of me wants to turn back and live in ignorance. Easier to hide from your fears than face up to them.

‘Yeah,’ I snort. ‘Like I’ve ever done that!’

Keeping
low, I jog to the brow of the hill. I can see the end of the park from here. There’s a deserted village not far beyond. A road cuts between the two. At the moment the road is blocked with a convoy of jeeps and trucks. The truck at the front is like a bulldozer, with rams attached to knock abandoned cars out of its way. They obviously use it to clear the road when they need to.

It doesn’t
take me long to realise we were way off the mark about this being a military operation when we heard the drone of engines a while back. Some of the people milling around the vehicles might once have been soldiers, but they aren’t any more, at least not soldiers in any regular army.

They’re dressed in white robes, with pointed hoods. Seems the rumours of the KKK Vinyl told us about weren’t
just stories after all.

It’s surreal seeing them standing there, chatting and laughing, a few urinating at the side of the road. I’ve only ever seen Klan creeps in films and TV shows. They were like movie monsters to me, something that didn’t exist in the real world, certainly not the world of twenty-first century London. It’s hard to believe they’ve sprung up in this country so quickly,
when they’ve never flourished here before, and at a time when race should mean less than ever.

But there’s a figure among them who’s even more surreal than the menacing, faceless bigots. This guy isn’t wearing a hood or a robe. He’s dressed in a smart, striped suit and is walking towards the convoy, his back to me. I can see that he has white hair, and that he’s also unusually tall.

I know who it is before he stops and turns to call the dog. I know by his gait and his
long fingers even before I spy his pot belly and those abnormally large, almost totally white eyes with their dark pupils like two tiny black holes leading all the way to hell.