Read Online The Secret Dead (London Bones Book 1) by SW Fairbrother - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: SW Fairbrother
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completely, and that’s when the risk of zompocalypse was at its highest. All it took was for him to go savage in a crowded place. He’d be unlikely to be able to kill anyone, but he’d be able to get a few good bites out of the crowd before he was subdued. And how many of the bitten would just hand themselves in? To be thrown away as a living corpse? Never to see their loved ones again? Not enough.
I wanted to call him a fool and a jerk, but ultimately I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t also have run. The zompocalypse might be a scary thought, but it seemed a lot better when you considered what happened if the NRTs got hold of you.
11
The army stopped us twice before Little thought to stick a blue light on the roof, and by the time we pulled up outside the Trust offices, the sun was just visible overhead, a lighter grey disc in the grey clouds.
I exited onto the wet pavement and grabbed my backpack from the back seat. ‘Thanks for the lift.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Little leaned over and pulled my door shut.
The Trust had started life in the mid-nineteenth century as a charitable concern funded by the Lipscombe family, whose money came from cotton mills in Lancashire. Originally, the Trust handed out small sums enabling ‘respectable non-human persons’ to buy an apprenticeship or set up in trade, but sometime over the years, we’d stopped handing out money and started dispensing advice.
The charity currently occupied the top two floors of a fifties-built office block in East Croydon. We shared the building with a stationery company and an operation that claimed to get you compensation for work-related injuries. We’d been in the new premises for four years. I didn’t miss the old place. It had been bigger and more spacious but had been located on the site of an old poorhouse, and I’d never grown used to the dozens of little ghosts, dead from malnutrition, cholera, or worse, who haunted the corridors. The building was now owned by a hedge fund. I’d heard their fortunes had taken a turn for the worse since they’d moved in, and I couldn’t help wondering how much was down to poor morale.
We’d initially occupied all five floors of the Croydon building, but as we gradually ran out of money, we’d also gradually run out of people. At least three out of four desks were empty, although there was the occasional piece of evidence that someone had once sat at them—a coffee mug, a pen holder, a few photos left behind. In some ways they were the lucky ones—a redundancy package and time to find a new job. I’d been paid late two months in a row, and I wasn’t sure how much longer the Trust was going to keep going. We had plenty of stationery at least. The Pen People gave us freebies in exchange for letting them store supplies in our excess office space.
I cupped my hands to the glass door, but the security guard who usually sat behind the desk was missing. Likely he hadn’t left home before the lockdown had been declared. I slipped round the back of the building, keyed my code into the box, and took the stairs up to the fourth floor.
A large orange sticker plastered onto the door indicated the NRTs had already been there looking for Malcolm. I pushed it open.
Reception was empty, but a familiar voice drifted down the corridor, and the light was on in Obe’s office. An additional shape through the clouded glass indicated he had a visitor. The door opened, and Obe poked his head out.
‘Viv! I wasn’t sure you were going to be able to make it in.’ He came out all the way, shutting the door behind him.
‘I got a lift.’
Obe wore a threadbare jumper with a reindeer on it and brown corduroy trousers—the same clothes I’d left him in before the Christmas break. By the smell of him, it wasn’t a wash and rewear. He didn’t look well either. His face was pale, his eyes bloodshot. He chewed on his bottom lip as he looked at me. It made his beard look like a small sea creature rolling in
I wanted to call him a fool and a jerk, but ultimately I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t also have run. The zompocalypse might be a scary thought, but it seemed a lot better when you considered what happened if the NRTs got hold of you.
11
The army stopped us twice before Little thought to stick a blue light on the roof, and by the time we pulled up outside the Trust offices, the sun was just visible overhead, a lighter grey disc in the grey clouds.
I exited onto the wet pavement and grabbed my backpack from the back seat. ‘Thanks for the lift.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Little leaned over and pulled my door shut.
The Trust had started life in the mid-nineteenth century as a charitable concern funded by the Lipscombe family, whose money came from cotton mills in Lancashire. Originally, the Trust handed out small sums enabling ‘respectable non-human persons’ to buy an apprenticeship or set up in trade, but sometime over the years, we’d stopped handing out money and started dispensing advice.
The charity currently occupied the top two floors of a fifties-built office block in East Croydon. We shared the building with a stationery company and an operation that claimed to get you compensation for work-related injuries. We’d been in the new premises for four years. I didn’t miss the old place. It had been bigger and more spacious but had been located on the site of an old poorhouse, and I’d never grown used to the dozens of little ghosts, dead from malnutrition, cholera, or worse, who haunted the corridors. The building was now owned by a hedge fund. I’d heard their fortunes had taken a turn for the worse since they’d moved in, and I couldn’t help wondering how much was down to poor morale.
We’d initially occupied all five floors of the Croydon building, but as we gradually ran out of money, we’d also gradually run out of people. At least three out of four desks were empty, although there was the occasional piece of evidence that someone had once sat at them—a coffee mug, a pen holder, a few photos left behind. In some ways they were the lucky ones—a redundancy package and time to find a new job. I’d been paid late two months in a row, and I wasn’t sure how much longer the Trust was going to keep going. We had plenty of stationery at least. The Pen People gave us freebies in exchange for letting them store supplies in our excess office space.
I cupped my hands to the glass door, but the security guard who usually sat behind the desk was missing. Likely he hadn’t left home before the lockdown had been declared. I slipped round the back of the building, keyed my code into the box, and took the stairs up to the fourth floor.
A large orange sticker plastered onto the door indicated the NRTs had already been there looking for Malcolm. I pushed it open.
Reception was empty, but a familiar voice drifted down the corridor, and the light was on in Obe’s office. An additional shape through the clouded glass indicated he had a visitor. The door opened, and Obe poked his head out.
‘Viv! I wasn’t sure you were going to be able to make it in.’ He came out all the way, shutting the door behind him.
‘I got a lift.’
Obe wore a threadbare jumper with a reindeer on it and brown corduroy trousers—the same clothes I’d left him in before the Christmas break. By the smell of him, it wasn’t a wash and rewear. He didn’t look well either. His face was pale, his eyes bloodshot. He chewed on his bottom lip as he looked at me. It made his beard look like a small sea creature rolling in
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