Zom-B Bride Read online

  “Let me guess your next words—then it struck him.”

  “Then it struck him,” Owl Man grins. “The vaccine that Oystein had developed, that allowed certain people to revitalize. Maybe that would do the trick.”

  “So he broke into the doc’s lab and hijacked a case?” I guess.

  “Yes,” Owl Man says. “But it didn’t work. He exhausted his supply on a variety of tests and got nowhere. He went back to the drawing board and concluded that he needed a sample of the vaccine that had passed through a person’s system. He could have stolen another case and injected his own guinea pigs, but there seemed little point when it would be easier to take blood from a selection of the thousands of infants being processed by Oystein’s operatives every year.”

  “Wait a minute,” I wheeze, seeing where this is headed. “Stop.”

  “He targeted a hundred children,” Owl Man continues as if I hadn’t spoken. “He did it furtively, without alerting Oystein or any of his team. Alas, no joy. Every experiment that he conducted with their blood was a failure. But he had a feeling that he was on the right track, so he tried another hundred.

  “Nobody knew–or knows–why certain people have the ability to revitalize. There was no way of telling which of Oystein’s subjects might recover the use of their brain after they’d been turned into a zombie. So he decided that he needed to keep on going until he found the blood of one with the… shall we say, right stuff?”

  “No,” I croak, pushing aside the baby with the hole in its head and lurching to my feet. “You’re making this up to freak me out.”

  “He got lucky with his second hundred specimens,” Owl Man purrs. “Judging by the results when he injected their blood into the embryos, six of the children had whatever was genetically required to combat the zombie gene. If he had shared his results with Oystein, it might have enabled the doctor to fast-track his vaccination program and identify the people who were viable candidates for revitalization. Thousands of lives could have been saved. Unfortunately Mr. Dowling has had no desire to aid the doctor in any area since they went their separate ways, and he cares nothing for the well-being of ordinary mortals. Humans are playthings to him.

  “Anyway, Mr. Dowling found himself the proud owner of six fertilized, healthy, zombie-resistant embryos. It would have made sense to hatch all six, but he was worried that if he created several breeds, they might fight with one another, as humans of different races have done since the dawn of mankind. He wanted only one of his precious crop.

  “He and I were back on speaking terms by that stage,” Owl Man says, ignoring me as I numbly shake my head. “He involved me in the choice, as he felt that would bring us closer together. I arranged for him to visit all six of the children whose blood we had utilized. They were young, some of them little more than babies themselves.

  “Mr. Dowling studied each child, probed their senses, tried to determine their character. I’m not sure he knew exactly what he was looking for, but he certainly recognized it when he found it. One of the children impressed him more than the others. A feisty little girl. He decided to keep the baby that he had created using her blood.”

  “No,” I whisper again.

  “He destroyed the other five embryos and sat on the sixth like a mother hen,” Owl Man goes on. “It took longer than he thought, almost three years, but finally it hatched, a beautiful, genderless mutant, which didn’t rely on brains to survive. Mr. Dowling declared himself well pleased, and immediately set about making many clones of the baby. Cloning is something both he and Oystein mastered decades ago, though Oystein never pursued it himself.

  “Every baby here is a clone of that first specimen. They are all the offspring of that original girl, the one Mr. Dowling chose to be the mother of the future.

  “Now, you’re a bright young thing,” Owl Man concludes with sadistic relish. “Do I need to tell you the girl’s name, or have you figured it out already?”

  In answer, I can only stare at him, then down at the babies, hundreds of horrors, each one the product of Mr. Dowling’s brilliant but twisted coupling with… me.

  ELEVEN

  “we love you mummy.” That’s what the babies whispered in my nightmares when I was alive and capable of sleep. I thought they were mocking me. I never guessed they were expressing genuine affection, that they truly saw me as their mother.

  “Wait,” I mumble, sitting down again. “The dreams. Why did I dream about the babies? I never saw any of this lot before that day in Brick Lane.”

  “They have a telepathic link with you,” Owl Man says. “We’re not sure how or why. I was astonished when I learned about your nightmares. I wished to bring you in for closer study, but Mr. Dowling insisted you be left to your own devices.”

  “He’s always been soft on you,” Kinslow snorts.

  “It is not softness,” Mr. Dowling whispers inside my head. “It is love.”

  I ignore the clown and stay focused on Owl Man.

  “The babies instinctively knew of their attachment to you,” he says. “They recognized your face when we showed them photographs of you. Some would occasionally sneak out and shadow you. We were worried that they would try to make contact, but they never approached you. They simply wanted to watch you go about your day-to-day life. Maybe they were reassuring themselves that you were in good shape.”

  “If they liked me that much, why did they always kill me in my dreams?” I grunt.

  “I think you contributed the more nightmarish elements,” Owl Man says.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I frown.

  “I’m not a psychoanalyst, but it seems likely to me that you knew about the babies on a subconscious level. Part of you realized that they regarded you as their mother, that you might one day be forced to bear responsibility for them. I think you demonized them in your dreams in an effort to sever your link with them, to deny what destiny seemed to have in store for you.”

  “If I had that much control over what I dreamed, why didn’t I give myself the power to kill them off in my nightmares?” I ask.

  “You were afraid,” he says. “You didn’t understand what was happening to you. This was your developing brain’s way of trying to deal with the issues at hand.”

  “Bloody brains,” I grumble. “They’ve caused us nothing but hassle since we evolved away from apes. We should have stayed in the trees. We’d have all been happier and a hell of a lot better off.”

  “Perhaps,” Owl Man nods. “But this is where we find ourselves. And now you know where the babies came from, why you dreamed about them and why Mr. Dowling has wanted to reunite with you ever since.”

  “Actually I’m not so sure of that last one.” I look at the clown. He has put the chalk aside–or swallowed it–and is staring at me, eyes rolling every which way at once. “So you used my blood to create and clone the babies. Big deal. My part in this should have finished there. Why come looking for me years later?”

  “Because I love you,” Mr. Dowling croons.

  “Stop saying that!” I glare.

  “But it’s true.” He comes towards me, arms waving wildly, spitting out bits of chalk. “I knew it the first time I explored your mind. You and the babies are my world. I love you all and want you around me as we press forward. We will be a family. I’ll find peace again in your arms.”

  “The only thing you’ll find in my arms is a big butcher’s knife, which I’ll bury between your shoulder blades the first chance I get,” I tell him.

  The clown giggles and starts hopping around. “Mr. Dowling and Becky, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g!” he sings.

  “Are you getting any of this?” I ask Owl Man with disgust.

  “Not at the moment,” he smiles. “But I can guess what he’s saying. He really does love you. That’s evident to us all.”

  I make a disgusted face. “Yeah, well, it’s the love of a lunatic. I’m sure celebrity stalkers used to think they were truly in love with their prey, and that the people they were b
othering would love them in return. But I’ve no interest in this sick creep. I’d rather get it on with Kinslow—don’t take that as an invite,” I add as the mutant theatrically brushes back his hair and smiles.

  “But you must love me,” Mr. Dowling says, sounding confused. “We’re meant for one another. I’ve built a kingdom for you. These are your babies. We need you.”

  “Tough,” I snap. “You repulse me. I wouldn’t pledge myself to you if you were the last man on earth. Hell will freeze over before you’ll get even a kiss on the cheek from me, Romeo.”

  Mr. Dowling cocks his head and studies me gloomily. He seems genuinely taken aback by my rejection, unsure how to react.

  “Let’s not be hasty,” Kinslow mutters uneasily. “Don’t say anything in the heat of the moment that you might regret later.”

  “Get stuffed,” I tell him, then focus on Owl Man. “You can’t expect me to go along with this. If you’ve been keeping tabs on me all this time, you know me better than that, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” he says. “But I also know how persuasive Mr. Dowling can be. If I was a gambler, I’d bet on you succumbing to his charms in the end, Becky.”

  “It’s B, numbnuts,” I jeer. “B Smith, plain and simple, and I plan to keep it that way. I’m not in the marrying frame of mind. You’ll have to look for a lover elsewhere, clown.”

  Mr. Dowling’s eyes close for a moment. When he opens them again, there are tears of blood in both corners.

  “don’t cry daddy,” the babies wail, crowding closer to hug his legs and stroke him soothingly.

  In response, the clown points a finger at me and the babies snap round, the way they did when Mrs. Reed threatened me. I think he plans to set them on me and I get ready to fight to the death. But when he makes a gesture with his right hand, they simply swarm forward, pick me up and hold me over their heads as they did when they first brought me underground.

  “If you won’t love me of your own free will, then you leave me with only one option,” Mr. Dowling hisses inside my head, leaning forward to eyeball me.

  “Torture?” I guess, glumly resigned to another bout of suffering.

  “No, silly,” the clown laughs, then kisses his fingers and presses them to the crown that he wove for me. “I will have to woo you!”

  TWELVE

  The babies cart me through the complex, Mr. Dowling lolloping along behind, Kinslow and Owl Man bringing up the rear. He bombards me with scenes from some of his favorite romantic films as we proceed–most are ancient black-and-white weepies–along with spliced images of the pair of us, beaming like the happy couples in the movie clips.

  I doggedly ignore the clown’s mental feed, arms crossed, face like a slapped arse. I’m not amused by his advances. I’m glad my friends from the old days aren’t around to see me humiliated like this. I’d have been a laughingstock if this had happened in front of Vinyl, Trev and the rest.

  I’m taken back to Mr. Dowling’s personal quarters. This time he doesn’t bother with the hearse, and the babies set me down by the top of the stairs. I descend in silence with the clown, Kinslow and Owl Man. As soon as we clear the steps, Mr. Dowling heads for his lab, clicking his fingers for Kinslow to accompany him.

  “I really think you should keep an open mind,” Owl Man murmurs as we wait for the clown to return.

  “Not a hope,” I snort. “He’s a madman. A killer. Evil to the bone. I have no plans to marry, but if I did I’d like to think I could do better than that.”

  “You have killed too,” Owl Man reminds me. “You shouldn’t be so quick to judge.”

  “I’ve done bad things,” I admit, “but there’s a world of difference between me and that wacko. I’m offended that you think we’re one and the same.”

  Owl Man sighs. “That’s not what I said. I was simply pointing out that you have both endured dark times and lashed out in savage ways. Mr. Dowling is a confused, tormented soul. He’s not vile as Dan-Dan was. Lord Wood chose to pursue his twisted path, whereas Mr. Dowling is a victim of circumstance.”

  “Bullshit,” I spit. “I don’t care what he’s been through. We all have a choice.”

  “Not if we’ve been stripped of our rationality,” Owl Man argues. “When you were a revived, you slaughtered indiscriminately and ate the brains of those you killed. I don’t hold you responsible for your actions, because you were nothing more than an animal acting as your nature dictated.

  “Mr. Dowling is in much the same state as you were then. He cannot control his base urges. He interprets the world as a random, wild, vicious place and reacts accordingly. In his disturbed frame of mind, he sees nothing untoward in the way he behaves. In a world of the insane, insanity is the logical response—that’s how he comprehends it.”

  I shake my head stubbornly. “Save your breath. You’ll never convince me. He can communicate normally with me when he speaks inside my head, so he must know what’s right and wrong.”

  “That is why he’s such a tragic figure,” Owl Man says. “A good man still exists inside him, but that man is trapped. He cannot take control of his body the way you or I can. He’s a victim.”

  “That’s a feeble excuse. He could regain control if he wanted, if he forced himself to focus. It’s just easier this way, waltzing through life not giving a damn. He isn’t trapped. He’s hiding.”

  Owl Man glares at me. He starts to say something, then stops and grimaces. “I really wish you would trust me, Becky—I mean, B.”

  “Why should I?” I counter.

  Owl Man considers that, then nods glumly. “Point conceded. Very well. I see that my words are falling on deaf ears–and such pretty new ears they are–so I will leave you in the care of your intended. As I said earlier, I’m sure he’ll win you over in the end. Don’t despise yourself when you renege on your promise to keep him at arm’s length.”

  “Where are you off to?” I ask, strangely sorry that he’s leaving. At least I can have a proper conversation with the owl-eyed freak. I don’t like the idea of having only Mr. Dowling and Kinslow to chat with.

  “I’m going to find Sakarias and Rage,” Owl Man tells me.

  “Watch out for that one,” I snort. “He’ll turn on you eventually, like he did with Dr. Oystein.”

  “I know,” Owl Man says. “But sometimes we must go into partnership with those we’d prefer to distance ourselves from. It’s the way of the world. If I was to interact only with the people I truly trust, I’d hardly deal with anyone at all.” He pauses, then says sincerely, “You would be one of the few.”

  “You old flatterer,” I grin. “Why don’t you bump off Mr. Dowling and take me with you? I wouldn’t mind bringing you a cup of hot chocolate and your slippers at night.”

  Owl Man laughs. “If I thought you were serious…” He smiles warmly. “Good luck, B. Take care. We’ll meet again, I’m sure, and, when we do, perhaps we can form a mutually beneficial partnership of our own.”

  On that odd note he takes his leave. I stare after him as he climbs the stairs. I don’t know why, but there’s something about the weirdo that I’m starting to warm to. He’s in league with the bad guys, but I get the sense that in his own way he’s trying to do good. I just don’t see how he thinks he can achieve anything positive by siding with Mr. Dowling and his beastly crew.

  Before I can pursue the notion any further, someone taps my shoulder. I look round and find Mr. Dowling standing behind me. He’s holding the wand that he shocked me with earlier.

  “Darling,” he whispers, then presses the wand to my forehead and sends me shooting off into a world of electrical sparks and spasms.

  THIRTEEN

  It soon becomes apparent that this is Mr. Dowling’s idea of courtship. He doesn’t bother with poems, flowers or chocolates—for him it’s all about electrocution and sharing his twisted thoughts with me.

  As my senses go into shock and I lie thrashing on the floor, the clown zaps his own brain and pulls me further into his strange, hallucinogenic mind. He o
pens up to me, revealing large chunks of his early life, memories of him with his wife and children, at work, reading, swimming. He loved to swim when he was human. He lived in a place where it always snowed heavily in winter, but regardless of that he’d swim in lakes and rivers all year round.

  Judging by the style of clothes that I spot in his flashbacks, he’s older than I thought. Then again, it’s hard to judge the accuracy of his recollections. Things get muddled. I’ll be watching him and his wife sitting by an old-style radio, listening to the news, when suddenly a spiky-haired punk will wander by the window, arm in arm with someone wearing a Vote for Obama T-shirt.

  If Mr. Dowling is out walking as a young man, the cars that he spots are mostly vintage, but there are modern models mixed in with them, even a few electric cars.

  Most of the memories play up his sympathetic, human side. I see him all loving and caring with his family, volunteering in a hospital, helping out in a home for the elderly. There are images of him walking away from people who are taunting him for one reason or another, turning his back on violence. At one point he picks up a dead dog that has been run over and cries softly.

  “Yeah,” I sneer. “You’ll cry for a dog, but what about all the people you’ve killed?”

  “That’s different,” Mr. Dowling says. He’s wearing the same style suit as when he projected himself into my head earlier, but it’s blue now, not white. “This has become a world of the dead. People don’t matter anymore. It’s hell on earth. We might as well revel in the chaos while we can.”

  “That’s why you’re a monster,” I snarl. “You’ve given up on people and treat them like scum. I never will. It doesn’t matter how bad things get, we should never lower ourselves to that level.”