Zom-B Bride Read online

  I pass the time thinking about that, picturing myself as a modern Darwin, charting the changing face of the animal kingdom. It keeps me amused as we follow the tunnel through Cannon Street Station, Monument, Tower Hill.

  I recall the undead Beefeater who wrestled me to the ground and demanded a ticket before letting me enter the Tower of London. Is he still at his post? Surely not, after all this time. Then again, he seemed like a determined sort. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’d stuck to his guns. I try asking the babies to swing by that way, so I can check, but they press on without pause, ignoring my pleas to make a short detour.

  The line branches after Tower Hill. One set of tracks curves off to the north, but we follow those that lead east, towards what used to be my home turf. I wonder if that’s where the babies plan to take me, back to my old flat. Maybe that’s why Mr. Dowling said they were taking me home.

  We ease through Aldgate East Station. Lots of Pakistani zombies here. Dad would have hated it. I smile sadly. He was a wife-beating racist, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss him. He had his moments. There were sides to him that I loved and was proud of. Not enough to blind me to his faults though. I won’t stand up for who he was and what he did. But still, he was my dad. He risked his life to help me. I’ll happily call him a bigot and a bully, but if anyone else does, and I hear about it, they’d better watch out!

  We’re getting close to Whitechapel when the babies suddenly veer left. For a moment I think they’ve moved to avoid an oncoming train. But of course no trains run on these tracks now, and it’s unlikely they ever will again.

  There are scuffling noises. I can’t see, but I think the babies are moving a panel aside. It takes a minute. Then the sounds stop and we start forward. The babies pause again when we pass through the opening into a new tunnel, to allow some of the pack to seal the entrance behind us.

  “Intriguing,” I mutter. “A hidden tunnel. I think we’re getting close to our destination…”

  As it turns out, I spoke too soon. By the occasional overhead light–they must be for the mutants–I see that we’re in a network of low, narrow, roughly carved tunnels. I get the impression that these have been recently created, probably by the mutants or people who were working for them. It’s even more of a maze than the sewers were. The tunnels branch off regularly, twist back on themselves, split up into sub-tunnels. I try keeping track of our route, but I’m lost after a couple of minutes. I actually get dizzy trying to keep up, and in the end I turn on my side and tune out.

  Eventually, after maybe half an hour, we come to a green door. Eyeballs have been nailed or stuck to it, so that it seems as if the door is a multi-eyed creature casting its gaze over us. It blocks the tunnel completely, illuminated by an overhead lamp. One of the babies knocks on the door three times with a hammer that is lying nearby. It strikes one of the eyes on its second blow and the globe of liquid explodes in a sticky, messy geyser.

  There’s a short delay. The babies wait patiently. Then a voice crackles over an intercom unit that I can’t see. “Hit us with the password, sweet things.”

  “open sesame,” the babies dutifully chant.

  “And in whose name do you request entrance?” the guard asks.

  “the crimson clown’s,” the babies respond.

  “Cool as ice cream,” the guard cackles.

  Locks are turned. The door swings open. And a bowing mutant waves us in as we move forward, leaving the tunnels behind, to wend our way into the rancid bowels of Mr. Dowling’s demonic domain.

  THREE

  I’m expecting something outlandish and hellish, and Mr. Dowling’s base doesn’t disappoint. It’s an insane, weirdly colorful, chaotic place, the perfect home for a psychotic clown.

  Very few of the rooms are regularly shaped. The ceilings and floors are uneven. There are usually five or six sides to each room. Doorways are clumsy holes cut in the walls, some far wider than necessary, others so narrow that we can only just squeeze through. Windows have been built into certain walls, but all they afford are views of carved stone.

  Most of the rooms are large, more like caves than living quarters. The majority are lit by Christmas-tree lights that have all been set to flashing mode. In some of the rooms, Christmas songs blare out on ancient record players. No CD or MP3 players here. Poor Vinyl’s dad would have approved.

  The walls are a mix of reds and browns. I’m pretty sure that the vibrant red colors are streaks of fresh blood, while the duller reds and browns, judging by the smell, are the product of a mixture of dried blood and excrement. I’d like to think that the shit is an animal product, but I’ve a nasty suspicion that it’s been supplied by Mr. Dowling’s mutants.

  The grisly paint has been smeared across the walls randomly in places, but in others it’s been carefully applied. Crude drawings of people, animals, eyes and swirling shapes. They all seem to have been done by the same hand. I’m guessing it’s Mr. Dowling’s. I mean, if he was going to hire an artist-in-residence, surely he’d have gone for someone with more talent.

  If the walls were only decorated with the revolting paint, they’d be disturbing enough. But scores of body parts are pinned to them too. Hands, feet, noses, ears and more. Heads are jammed on spikes sticking out of the walls, and just about every corner features an intact corpse hanging from the ceiling. Some are in an advanced state of decay. Some are fresher. And some, I notice sickly when I spot one of the corpses struggling weakly, are still alive.

  Machinery is mixed in with the body segments. Lots of different engine parts have been welded together with knives, saws and other weapons. I’m not sure if these are sculptures or implements of torture. If the latter, Dan-Dan would have had a blast here. Mr. Dowling’s array of instruments puts the would-be sailor boy’s tools to shame.

  Some of the rooms contain sparkling costumes and props that seem to have come from a circus. Trapeze bars lean against the walls, ropes lie piled in corners, juggling pins are stacked on tables. A giant cannon dominates one room like a holy relic. It’s not a real cannon, rather the sort that propels human cannonballs through the air. I eye it uncertainly as we pass, wondering what foul use it might have been put to by its unhinged owner.

  There are photographs too, of famous murderers, crime scenes, concentration camp victims. I spot mutants busily removing or defacing certain photos. I don’t think much of that until one of them waves a photo at me, smiling proudly. The photo has been set on fire, but before the flames eat into it I catch sight of a familiar face—Dan-Dan. He must have been one of the stars of the grisly exhibition in the past, but he’s fallen from favor and is now being swiftly erased from memory. I can’t say I disapprove. Sometimes history should be rewritten.

  Lots of mutants are milling around, resting on couches, playing, eating and drinking. I even spot a few going to the toilet. The toilets are set in the middle of the rooms, no stalls, in open view of everyone, and instead of toilet paper they use tongues that have been harvested from their victims. When I see that, I offer up a quick prayer of thanks for my non-functioning bowels.

  A few of the creeps are sleeping, but not on beds—they hang from the ceiling in harnesses, looking similar to the strung-up corpses. Others are sharpening swords or loading guns. Weapons are everywhere, freely stacked, accessible to all.

  I attract a few curious stares as I’m carried past by the babies, but nobody is shocked to see me. I think it takes a lot to faze anyone in this place.

  The complex seems to spill on forever. The babies march me around for at least a quarter of an hour. Of course they might be doing repeat circuits to make it feel bigger than it is. The rooms all look the same after the first few. Each features such an array of head-spinning atrocities that they soon blend into one huge, migraine-inducing blur.

  Finally we come to a room with a hearse in the center. I don’t know how they got it here. Maybe they took it apart, then rebuilt it underground. It gleams as if brand-new. No bloodstains or shitty smears on this morbid littl
e beauty.

  The babies stop in front of the hearse and set me down. As I stand, shivering and gaping, they quickly undress me. I don’t protest. They leave my bandages intact, but remove everything else. When I’m naked, they pick me up again and hold me above their heads. I wait for them to do something, but they’re like statues now.

  My creepily cute carriers hold their pose for ages. They don’t move. I lie still, not sure what they’re waiting for, but enjoying the peace and quiet. No mutants enter the room. We’re alone.

  Finally the man of the hour, Mr. Dowling, appears in all his gruesome glory. He hops into view, giggling ghoulishly, faithful mutant sidekick Kinslow close behind. He starts to undress as he comes towards me, kicks off his clown’s shoes, then wriggles out of his pinstripe suit. He’s not wearing anything underneath.

  The flesh of his torso has been sliced away in many places, as it has been on his fingers, to reveal veins, arteries, bones, guts. Bolts have been driven into his rib cage in several places. Four pins have been stuck into his chest over his heart. Blood oozes slowly from the wounds.

  I don’t look at his groin. When I die, I don’t want my last thought to be a recollection of Mr. Dowling’s dangly bits.

  Kinslow strips too. The mutant’s a real mess, like the rest of his kind. His skin is pustulent, purple in places, peeling away in others. Untidy gray hair. Yellow eyes. Teeth either black with rot or missing. No fingernails. A scabby, shriveled tongue. Not the sort of beau you dream about taking back to meet your parents.

  As the babies set me on my feet, so that I can face Mr. Dowling directly, I mutter, “There’s far too much stripping going on for my liking.”

  “Worried we’re going to seduce you?” Kinslow chuckles.

  “Not with that shrimp of a thing,” I tell him.

  Kinslow glowers at me. I don’t know if my jibe is justified or not–I haven’t looked–but it seems to be a sore point.

  “Seriously though,” I growl, my fingers balling up into fists. “If either of you sickos makes a move on me…”

  “Don’t worry, Becky,” Kinslow says. “This isn’t a time for romance.”

  “Then why have you taken your clothes off?” I ask.

  “You’ll find out in a minute,” he promises.

  Mr. Dowling leans towards me, until we’re almost nose-to-nose, and beams as if he’s been waiting all his life for this moment. The skin of his face is rippling. The v-shaped channels in his cheeks are bright pink, and gaps around his eyes where he’s carved the flesh away are thick with soot—he must have touched them up on his way here.

  “Hey, good-looking,” I croak, forcing a limp smile. “What you got cooking?”

  “You, if you’re not careful,” Kinslow says, stepping up beside his master.

  I sneer. “You can’t frighten me with talk like that. You wouldn’t have brought me all this way just to stick me in a cannibal’s pot.”

  Kinslow laughs. “You’re mistaking us for logical creatures. We’ve done far stranger things than this, just for the hell of it.”

  Mr. Dowling makes a gurgling sound and Kinslow nods obediently—he can read his mute master’s thoughts, the way the babies can read mine. “But you’re right. We didn’t bring you here to eat you. Though we’re not ruling it out if you misbehave.”

  The naked clown extends his arms and sighs deeply as he hugs me. I stiffen nervously, afraid that his fingers are going to wander, but he just holds me innocently, the way a child would hug its mother. I can feel his heart beating, fast and hard. As he pulls back, he opens his mouth to reveal a small snake slithering around his long, black tongue. He picks it out and drops it in the cavity where my heart should be. I squeal and tear the snake loose.

  “Arsehole!” I snap at Mr. Dowling. “What did you do that for?”

  “It was a gift,” Kinslow smiles.

  “Tell him to get me chocolates next time.”

  Mr. Dowling snickers, then warbles something at the babies. They move to the side of the hearse. Kinslow opens the driver’s door and the clown sits in. The mutant hurries to the passenger door and gets in too, sliding across to the middle of what is a single long seat.

  The babies gently push me into the car after Kinslow and close the door on me. “bye-bye mummy,” they call. “see you soon. we love you mummy.”

  “I love you too, little ones,” I laugh hysterically, blowing theatrical kisses after them. Most don’t see, because they’re already filing out of the room, but the baby with the hole in its head looks back at me solemnly, then bares its fangs in a quick smile and returns my wave.

  I turn my attention to the pair in the hearse. They’re both looking dead ahead, no pun intended. I glance over my shoulder. There’s no coffin in the back.

  “What now?” I ask but they don’t answer. “Is this what you guys do for fun?” I try again.

  Kinslow winks. Then he presses a button in the dashboard. The seat starts to recline. Since the other two seem at ease, I lie back nervously and reluctantly go along with whatever’s happening.

  As the seat levels out, it also moves backwards and the leg rest rises until we’re lying flat in the back of the hearse. I start to think that maybe this is where the clown and his pet sleep, and they’re turning in for the night. The thought that I’m sharing a glorified bed with Mr. Dowling and his henchman doesn’t do anything to settle my nerves.

  “Are you sure you don’t have any funny business in mind?” I croak.

  “We’re not predators,” Kinslow says haughtily. “Not that kind anyway.”

  “Well, you can’t blame me for thinking the worst,” I tell him. “Two naked guys invite a young lady into their hearse-styled bed…”

  “Foolish girl,” Kinslow snaps.

  “What have I done to get up your nose?” I frown.

  “This isn’t a bed,” he says.

  “Then what is it?” I ask.

  He flashes his blackened teeth at me. “A portal to pleasures of the sweetest, most refreshing kind.”

  As I’m trying to figure that one out, the seat beneath us suddenly splits in two and a void opens up. I shout with surprise and fear as we drop abruptly. I thrash wildly and open my mouth wide to scream.

  But the scream’s cut short when we splash into a vat of thick, slimy, sickly sweet liquid. As I go under and twist around, I get a familiar taste and realize what I’m immersed in—blood.

  FOUR

  I come up in a panic and gasping for air. It’s out of habit—my lungs don’t work, so there’s no fear that I might drown. As I bob up and down, I cast my gaze around. We’re in a large chamber, a mix of bedroom, living room and laboratory. Once I have my bearings, I make for the edge of the vat, eager to scramble out of this nightmarish swamp.

  “What’s the rush?” Kinslow says.

  I look back and spot the mutant floating on his back, arms crossed behind his head, as if we’re in a swimming pool. Mr. Dowling hasn’t surfaced yet.

  “What the hell is this?” I splutter.

  “A literal bloodbath,” he chuckles, rolling round and dunking his head to take a deep swallow of the filthy soup.

  As I stare at the back of Kinslow’s head, Mr. Dowling pops up out of the mess and spits a stream of blood into my face. I screech with outrage and throw a fist at him. That knocks me off balance and I go under again.

  As I come up this time, I realize the vat isn’t just filled with blood. There are objects floating it in. Gray, gooey chunks. I guess most people wouldn’t recognize the gunk, but I’ve had plenty of experience where this substance is concerned and I place the bits instantly—brains.

  “You can tuck into them if you want,” Kinslow says, sticking his head up out of the blood, “but they’re not particularly appetizing. They add to the kick of the stew. Best just to stretch out and soak up the goodness.”

  “What goodness?” I growl, but I’m already starting to feel better. The pain has ebbed and I’m not as exhausted as I was when the babies were holding me.


  “This is our version of Oystein’s Groove Tubes,” Kinslow explains as Mr. Dowling dives to the bottom of the vat again. “It’s not as restorative as his syrup, but it kicks in more swiftly. Perfect when you need a shot in the arm.”

  “It’ll take more than a quick fix to sort me out,” I grunt.

  “Don’t be so sure of that,” Kinslow says. “A dip in this once a day and you’ll be bouncing about the place in no time.”

  Sniffing dubiously, I swim to the edge of the vat and study my surroundings. The room is much the same as the others that I’ve seen, except with the addition of a bed, some large sofas and lots of laboratory equipment. There are also posters plastered across the walls, a mixture of childish drawings and photographs. The photos are all of two people, always shot separately, but pinned together in the posters. One of the subjects is Mr. Dowling. The other is me.

  I stare with unease at the photos. I don’t mind the drawings–they’re just the clown’s clumsy handiwork–but the photos cover most of my life. There are shots of me when I was a baby, a young girl, a teenager. A few are recent, but most date back to before I became a zombie. I’m unaware of the photographer in all of them. These aren’t photos that I posed for. They were taken when I wasn’t looking, by sinister paparazzi who must have been trailing me for most of my living days.

  “Where did he get all of these?” I ask quietly.

  “He was keeping an eye on you,” Kinslow snickers.

  “Why?”

  The mutant shrugs. If he knows–and I’m sure by his sly smile that he does–he’s not telling.

  Mr. Dowling surfaces again beside me, points to a photo that looks like it was taken on my first day at school and makes a whining noise.

  “He says that’s his favorite picture,” Kinslow translates. “He wishes he could have walked you to school that day. He would’ve loved to have slaughtered all of the other children as a present for you, so that you’d have known how special you were.”