ZOM-B 11 Page 3

  Then it turns to face me and glides closer. A tiny figure dressed in a white gown, the material soaked with blood. Red eyes. Fangs. A hole in its thin skull, which is a smaller mirror image of the hole in my chest.

  ‘hello mummy,’ Holy Moly says.

  And smiles.

  FIVE

  The baby cuddles up to me and hugs my left arm. Then it reaches up and tenderly strokes my cheek. It leaves a wet red smear behind.

  ‘i stopped the bad men hurting you mummy.’

  ‘Yes,’ I sob, clutching Holy Moly tight. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘don’t be sad mummy. you’re safe now. i’ll look after you.’

  I’m not used to having one of the babies speak to me directly, as an individual. Normally it’s always we, not I.

  ‘Are you alone?’ I ask.

  ‘no,’ the baby cackles. ‘silly mummy. i’m with you.’

  I smile. ‘I meant are any of the other babies with you?’

  ‘oh. no. i came by myself. we were worried about you mummy.’

  I squeeze Holy Moly tighter, then release the sweet but deadly infant and wipe some blood from its forehead and chin. ‘You’ll need to wash when you get back. You’re dirty.’

  ‘it’s only blood mummy,’ the baby says, then sucks a drop from its fingertip. ‘yummy. but not as yummy as yummy mummy.’

  ‘You little charmer,’ I murmur, pushing myself to my feet. I gaze at the corpses and wince. Glenn and Ossie had been all set to kill me, but they weren’t the most ruthless villains I’ve come across. I wish we could have spared them.

  ‘How did you find me?’ I ask Holy Moly. ‘Did I leave a trail?’

  ‘no,’ the baby says. ‘we can always find mummy.’ It taps the side of its head.

  The bloody telepathic link that Owl Man told me about! The babies have always been able to find me, shadowing me for much of my childhood, keeping tabs on me from a distance. Does that mean that Mr Dowling can follow me too, since we now share a link like the one I have with the babies?

  ‘no mummy,’ Holy Moly says, reading my troubled thoughts. ‘that’s not the same as our link. daddy can’t search for you that way.’

  ‘That’s a relief,’ I mutter, ‘though I don’t suppose it makes a difference. He’ll simply tag along after the others when they come looking for me.’

  ‘they won’t do that,’ the baby says. ‘i’m the only one who’s coming to help mummy. only me. only holy moly.’

  It’s the first time I’ve heard the baby use the name I gave it. I ruffle the sinister child’s hair, feeling bizarrely proud, then sigh. ‘The rest of them will search for me when Daddy tells them to,’ I note glumly.

  The baby shakes its head. ‘he did ask them. he roared at us.’ Holy Moly looks rueful. ‘naughty daddy. he shouted. scared his little babies. mummies and daddies should be nice all the time.’

  ‘Not in this world,’ I say darkly, remembering my own brute of a father. ‘So you’re telling me you guys refused to help the clown find me?’

  Holy Moly nods firmly. ‘daddy wanted to kill mummy. we could see it in his head. we won’t help him do that, the same way we wouldn’t let you kill him. we love our yummy mummy.’

  I grin savagely, imagining how furious Mr Dowling must have been when his beloved creations rejected his orders. And he wouldn’t have been able to reason with or threaten them. The babies are a law unto themselves, exactly the way he made them.

  ‘daddy sent his other friends after mummy instead,’ Holy Moly continues. ‘we knew they’d kill mummy if they caught her. some of us said it would serve her right for hurting daddy. but we didn’t mean it. we all love you mummy.’

  ‘Did the other babies send you to help me?’ I ask.

  ‘no,’ Holy Moly says. ‘i came because i wanted to. i often go off by myself. that’s how the bad people caught me and did this.’

  The baby points to the hole in its head, reminding me of the time when my friend Timothy first introduced me to his incredible find. He’d discovered the baby on a street, speared through its skull, immobile and defenceless. We never did find out who attacked it. I could ask now, but this isn’t the time for such enquiries.

  ‘I need to get back to the city,’ I tell Holy Moly. ‘Can you help me?’

  ‘easy,’ the baby says confidently.

  ‘It could be dangerous,’ I warn. ‘If Daddy’s forces spot us, they might punish you for helping me.’

  ‘they won’t find us,’ Holy Moly says. ‘i can see in the dark better than they can. i can go places they don’t know about.’ The baby squeezes my hand. ‘i’ll look after you mummy. i’ll keep you safe. i’m a good baby i am.’

  I recall the movie, My Fair Lady, which my mum loved and often made me watch with her. Thinking about the woman in that – her catchphrase was, ‘I’m a good girl, I am’ – I laugh hysterically. It’s dangerous, making this much noise, but I can’t help myself.

  Finally my laughter dies away and I regain control. ‘OK. Where now?’

  ‘this way,’ Holy Moly says, starting back the way I was coming from when Ossie and Glenn found me.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘yes. stick with holy moly. i know where i’m going.’

  I wonder for a worried moment if the baby might be planning to trick me and lead me back to Mr Dowling’s base, to hand me over to its dastardly daddy. But it would have been easier to let the mutants kill me if that was the case, or just help them bind me and drag me along.

  ‘Wait a sec.’ I stop my mini guide, bending to pick up the torch. The tube inside me shifts around a bit when I do that – it must have been knocked loose in the fighting – so I take the time to nudge it firmly back into place. When my cargo is secure, I flash the torch around, to check that I’m not leaving any bloody prints, then turn it off. While it might come in handy later, for the time being we’ll be safer in the darkness.

  But then I see that we’re not completely in the dark. Holy Moly’s eyes are still glowing crimson.

  ‘Can you make your eyes stop doing that?’ I ask.

  ‘doing what?’ the baby replies.

  ‘Glowing. Other people might see.’

  The baby grins, showing its fangs. ‘clever mummy,’ it coos, letting the red light dim and then vanish, plunging us back into fathomless black.

  ‘Yeah, I’m a regular Einstein, me,’ I croak.

  ‘who is einstein mummy?’ Holy Moly asks.

  ‘I’ll tell you as we walk,’ I whisper, holding the baby’s hand tightly so as not to get lost. ‘It will help pass the time. And you can tell me about . . .’ I think for a moment, then add jokingly, ‘. . . killing, in return.’

  ‘oh good,’ the baby says, taking my joke seriously, and I can sense its innocent yet chilling grin even though I can’t see its face. ‘i know lots about that.’

  SIX

  Holy Moly is as good as its word. We slip through the tunnels like a pair of ghosts. Occasionally we hear echoes of mutants in the distance, but we don’t encounter any of them as we wind our way across the city, and eventually all of the noises dwindle away completely.

  Talking is an effort, so I don’t tell the baby as many tales as I meant to, and I definitely don’t push it to tell me any horrible stories about killing, even though it’s indicated that it would be only too keen to share them with me. Holy Moly doesn’t mind. It’s happy to march along in silence, delighted to be of service to its mummy.

  Sheer stubbornness keeps me going. I’m wrecked. I should lie down and rest for hours, maybe days. But I’m not convinced I’d find the strength to rise again if I stopped, so I force myself on.

  I think of my reception at County Hall when I’m feeling especially weary. I try to imagine what it will be like, Dr Oystein embracing me, distraught when he sees my wounds, stunned and delighted when I reveal the vial of Schlesinger-10.

  That moment will mark the beginning of our end. Once the doc has secured the vial, he’ll uncork his sample of Clements-13 and the deadly fumes will st
art working their way through the air. He expects the virus to spread across the globe within a couple of weeks, killing every zombie that it infects. In a fortnight’s time this world will belong to the living again.

  I wonder if they’ll mark our passing when we’re gone, if there’ll be plaques or statues to commemorate my name, Dr Oystein’s, the rest of the Angels. Or will they try to forget about this squalid, terrible time? Maybe they’ll wipe all trace of us from the history books, or claim the victory as their own. They might not want their children and grandchildren to grow up feeling indebted to a raggedy mob of the undead.

  I’m not bothered either way. Like the doc, I’m not in this for the glory. I just want to do what I can to help, then check out of this hurtful world. True death will be a relief after this wretched, inbetween state.

  But linking up with Dr Oystein again . . . handing over the vial . . . hearing the Angels cheer my name . . .

  Yeah, that will be nice. All modesty aside, I can’t wait for my moment in the spotlight. I’ll be getting the stamp of approval from the only people I really feel close to. The rest of the world can keep its statues and busts. If Dr Oystein says he’s proud of me, and the Angels salute me, I can die a happy girl.

  ‘happy mummy,’ Holy Moly mumbles, reading my thoughts.

  ‘Very happy.’ I smile in the darkness. ‘Are you happy too?’

  ‘i’m happy if mummy’s happy,’ the baby says.

  That simple statement makes my heart ache — or the memory of it anyway. I wish we could spare the babies. It’s not fair that they have to perish along with the rest of us.

  ‘You deserve better than this,’ I tell Holy Moly. And I mean it. They might be savage little killing machines, but that’s not their fault. They’re capable of love too. Innocent in many ways. They could have been turned to the cause of good if they’d had Dr Oystein as a father figure instead of the psychotic clown. As things stand, they don’t understand the difference between good and evil. Nobody’s ever taught them.

  I trudge along, my spirits sinking, thinking of all that must be sacrificed once my mission is complete. But the future of the living has to come before all other concerns. This was their planet first and we have to hand it back. That’s been my priority since I returned to consciousness. Even before I stumbled upon Dr Oystein and his Angels in County Hall, I was trying to help those who had survived.

  It’s not that I’m a natural do-gooder. To be perfectly honest, I’m no more heroic than Ossie and Glenn were. But sometimes you get thrown in at the deep end, and you spot someone more needy and vulnerable than yourself, and you realise that if you don’t put their needs first and risk your life to save theirs, then you’ll eke out the rest of your days as a guilt-ridden monster. And who wants to carry on living with that sort of a millstone hanging round their neck?

  As my thoughts turn more maudlin, Holy Moly helps me squeeze through a hole and we strike the tracks of a Tube line. The going is easier here. There’s even the occasional light to see by. I worry that we might run into mutants – I thought Mr Dowling would have dispatched patrols in both directions along the track, figuring I’d have to connect with it at some point – but there’s no sign of them.

  We pass through Mansion House Station, dotted with zombies who pay us little heed. Strange to think that they’ll all be stiff, harmless corpses within a few weeks, decomposing sacks of flesh and bone. Will humans come through here again one day, clean the cadavers away and restore the train service? Or will they shut these places down and leave them as mausoleums, bearers of the dark, grisly secrets of the past?

  I hobble along stubbornly without pause, through the stations at Blackfriars and Temple, only stopping when I come to Embankment. This is where I’ll leave the underworld behind, taking the station exit like commuters did in the old days.

  ‘You can leave me here if you like,’ I tell Holy Moly.

  The baby shakes its head. ‘not until we get to the city. i promised to take you to the city mummy.’

  ‘You’d have made a great bodyguard,’ I chuckle, then lift Holy Moly up on to the platform. I didn’t really need to do that – the baby can look after itself – but I wanted to feel useful.

  I groan and wheeze, trying to pull myself up too. Holy Moly could help, maybe find a rope or some bags that I could use as steps, but it can see that I want to do this by myself, so it stands there quietly, leaving me to my own devices.

  There are lots of zombies filling the platform, which means it must be daytime up in the world above. The living dead hordes study me with disinterest, not caring where I’ve come from or why I’m dressed so strangely. They have no interest in anyone that they can’t eat.

  Finally I clear the tracks and haul myself to my feet. I feel like I’ve climbed a mountain. I clasp my hands over my head and cheer jokingly at the zombies on the platform. But then I spot a figure standing close by the spot where I crawled up, and I stop in mild amazement.

  It’s a woman. She’s dressed in white robes, and her hair is white too. I’ve seen her before in a station like this, when her robes and hair were a lot cleaner than they are now, but that was in Liverpool Street. She was alive when she entered the place, but she never came out. I turned her into a zombie, at her request, to prevent her brain being eaten when we were cornered by a pack of reviveds.

  ‘Sister Clare?’ I wheeze with disbelief.

  The former leader of the Order of the Shnax doesn’t respond. She’s staring off into space, like most of the zombies on the platform.

  ‘How did you get here?’ I groan, shuffling across to stand in front of her, wanting her to recognise me and respond.

  The zombie says nothing. She doesn’t even look at me.

  I study the once barmy Sister Clare. She looks much the same as I remember. The months have been good to her. Dirtier than when she was alive, her face stained with dried blood from where she’s eaten, robes filthy and ripped in several places. But otherwise there’s not much difference.

  ‘Poor cow,’ I whisper, reaching up to touch her cheek. She doesn’t flinch. ‘You hoped you’d revitalise, but that was never an option. I didn’t know it then, but I suppose it wouldn’t have mattered if I had. You were trapped. There was nothing else we could have done. It was join them or become their lunch.’

  Sister Clare frowns and turns her gaze on me. She’s not used to talking zombies. She checks the hole where my heart should be, making sure I’m really dead, then looks ahead again, dismissing me without thought.

  I wish I could do something for her, but she seems to be in good shape. Judging by the stains around her mouth, she ate not that long ago. There isn’t really any way for me to improve her sad lot.

  ‘Come on,’ I tell Holy Moly, taking its hand. ‘We’re on my turf now. Let me be the guide for a while.’

  ‘is your friend coming with us mummy?’ the baby asks.

  ‘That crazy witch is no friend of mine,’ I snort. But then I pause and glance back one last time at the statue-like Sister Clare. There’s no reason why I should care about the mad zealot after she brought her grisly end down on herself, leading a group of other people to their death while she was at it. But for some strange reason I feel sorry for her.

  ‘You’ll be properly dead soon,’ I murmur, insides clenching round the buried vial. ‘I hope you find peace, whether it’s in heaven or with your aliens. Think of me every so often if you do.’

  Then, having wasted enough time on the undead woman, I work my way up through the station, squeezing by the zombies who pack the platform and tunnels. They’re even crowding the escalators, sitting or standing on the steps, gazing blankly off into the distance like Sister Clare was. I wish the escalators were working – what I wouldn’t give for a smooth ride up out of the depths – but they’re as lifeless as the people stacked along them.

  I limp onwards and upwards. Holy Moly ducks in and out between my legs as I walk, treating this as a game. I’m not looking any further ahead than the next step, not
wanting to focus on how far I have to go, knowing I’d lose heart if I stopped to check. What I can’t see can’t freak me out.

  Eventually I make it to the top, and I’m more relieved than I should be. I was beginning to think that I’d truly died, that this was hell, an endless series of steps that I’d have to spend all of eternity climbing.

  ‘That was easy, wasn’t it?’ I mutter.

  ‘yes,’ Holy Moly says, missing the sarcasm.

  The ticket barriers are open, so at least I don’t have that hassle to deal with. We push through and out of the riverbank exit, into sunlight. The light hurts my eyes, but not as much as I thought it would, and it starts to get dimmer after a few seconds, cancelling out the headache that I normally get when travelling by day.

  The dimness confuses me until I recall the special contact lenses that Mr Dowling stuck in when he rebuilt my ruined body. They must feature an automatic tinting system. I’m still not comfortable in the sunlight, but I can deal with it and see much more clearly than I could before.

  ‘Thanks, hubby,’ I whisper, and spread my arms wide, feeling like Lazarus reborn. I’m sure I’m wearing a goofy smile but I don’t care. This is glorious after the darkness of that underworld realm. Even the itching isn’t as bad as it used to be, probably because of all the replacement flesh that the clown grafted on to me.

  ‘shall i leave you here mummy?’ Holy Moly asks.

  That surprises me. The baby seems almost eager to be rid of me. But then I recall that I asked it to lead me safely to the city. Now that we’re here, it clearly thinks that its job is done. It’s not looking to abandon me — it just assumes that I have no more need of it and want to be by myself. The babies are nothing if not literal.

  ‘Stick with me a few more minutes,’ I tell it, heading under a bridge to the right of the station. ‘I want to show you where I live. It’s a lovely sight. Let me share it with you. Your reward for helping me out.’