as hares now that they don’t have me to slow them down. I watch them depart, feeling lonely again, but nowhere near as lost as I did before they linked up
with me and told me hope was still alive. Then I turn into Brick Lane and start hobbling.
I pass the first of the legions of curry houses which this street was once famous for, and remember a conversation with Timothy, when he offered to cook me a meal. The artist was as loony
as Mr Dowling in his own way, but sweet with it. I still miss him, even though I didn’t get to know him that well.
I spot a few zombies lurking in the shadows of the restaurants. They can tell with a glance that I’m one of them, so they pay me no mind.
It’s only as I draw close to my goal that I recall the last time I was here, the day that Mr Burke tried to kill Dr Oystein. My old teacher had found me in the Brewery, acting as a
makeshift curator, taking care of Timothy’s paintings. Rage was with him, helping cart a trolley full of folders across the city from wherever they’d dug them up. Rage and I left Burke
there, poring over the paperwork.
The next time I saw him, he was insane. He tried to shoot the doc. While subduing Burke, I accidentally infected him and he turned into a zombie. We knew that Mr Dowling must have got hold
of him and fried his brain, because the very last thing he wheezed to me before he lost his humanity was the clown’s name.
Dr Oystein was keeping the undead Billy Burke in County Hall at my request, on the off chance that he might revitalise. I wonder if he brought the zombie teacher with him when they moved base, or if he left Burke behind, or set him free. I must ask him when we’ve finished discussing our other business. I liked Burke and feel
guilty for robbing him of his life. I want to do right by him.
The front door of the building is open. There are several zombies on the ground floor, standing or sitting, staring off blankly into space, waiting for night to fall. I could shoo them out,
but they’re not bothering me, so I leave them be.
I shuffle forward, meaning to crawl up the stairs to check that Timothy’s paintings are in good condition. The artist loved his drawings. They gave his life meaning. I hope Mr
Dowling’s mutants didn’t destroy or disfigure any of them when they found Burke here and went to work on him.
Then I spot a few folders lying open on the floor and pause. They’re some of the files from the trolley that Burke and Rage were lugging through the streets on that awful day. I
don’t know what my ex-teacher was hoping to find in them, and I don’t really care, but the sight of the folders distresses me. They remind me of my history with Mr Burke, his grisly conversion, the role I played in it. I decide to tidy the place up, return the folders to the trolley, maybe push it out of here if I have
the strength. At least that way I won’t have to be forcibly reminded of the good friend that I lost.
With a groan, I bend and pick up the nearest folder. I stare at it sadly. Perhaps these were the pages Burke was looking at when Mr Dowling snuck up on him and struck. The final words he read as
a living human, unaware that the end was so close.
Curious, I flick through the pages, trying to put myself in Burke’s shoes, to imagine what he might have been thinking about. The pages are densely packed with small print, lots of
paragraphs crammed in, technical jargon. I can’t understand most of it and I start to lay the folder aside.
Then I spot a name that stops me —
Dowling
.
I raise the folder again and try reading the paragraph from the first line, but it doesn’t make sense taken out of context, so I flick back to the beginning of the chapter and start
from there.
I’m not a quick reader. Normally it takes me a long time to plough through a chunk of text. But, as the significance of what I’m reading sinks in, I find myself flying through the
pages.
After a while, I put the folder down and numbly pick
with me and told me hope was still alive. Then I turn into Brick Lane and start hobbling.
I pass the first of the legions of curry houses which this street was once famous for, and remember a conversation with Timothy, when he offered to cook me a meal. The artist was as loony
as Mr Dowling in his own way, but sweet with it. I still miss him, even though I didn’t get to know him that well.
I spot a few zombies lurking in the shadows of the restaurants. They can tell with a glance that I’m one of them, so they pay me no mind.
It’s only as I draw close to my goal that I recall the last time I was here, the day that Mr Burke tried to kill Dr Oystein. My old teacher had found me in the Brewery, acting as a
makeshift curator, taking care of Timothy’s paintings. Rage was with him, helping cart a trolley full of folders across the city from wherever they’d dug them up. Rage and I left Burke
there, poring over the paperwork.
The next time I saw him, he was insane. He tried to shoot the doc. While subduing Burke, I accidentally infected him and he turned into a zombie. We knew that Mr Dowling must have got hold
of him and fried his brain, because the very last thing he wheezed to me before he lost his humanity was the clown’s name.
Dr Oystein was keeping the undead Billy Burke in County Hall at my request, on the off chance that he might revitalise. I wonder if he brought the zombie teacher with him when they moved base, or if he left Burke behind, or set him free. I must ask him when we’ve finished discussing our other business. I liked Burke and feel
guilty for robbing him of his life. I want to do right by him.
The front door of the building is open. There are several zombies on the ground floor, standing or sitting, staring off blankly into space, waiting for night to fall. I could shoo them out,
but they’re not bothering me, so I leave them be.
I shuffle forward, meaning to crawl up the stairs to check that Timothy’s paintings are in good condition. The artist loved his drawings. They gave his life meaning. I hope Mr
Dowling’s mutants didn’t destroy or disfigure any of them when they found Burke here and went to work on him.
Then I spot a few folders lying open on the floor and pause. They’re some of the files from the trolley that Burke and Rage were lugging through the streets on that awful day. I
don’t know what my ex-teacher was hoping to find in them, and I don’t really care, but the sight of the folders distresses me. They remind me of my history with Mr Burke, his grisly conversion, the role I played in it. I decide to tidy the place up, return the folders to the trolley, maybe push it out of here if I have
the strength. At least that way I won’t have to be forcibly reminded of the good friend that I lost.
With a groan, I bend and pick up the nearest folder. I stare at it sadly. Perhaps these were the pages Burke was looking at when Mr Dowling snuck up on him and struck. The final words he read as
a living human, unaware that the end was so close.
Curious, I flick through the pages, trying to put myself in Burke’s shoes, to imagine what he might have been thinking about. The pages are densely packed with small print, lots of
paragraphs crammed in, technical jargon. I can’t understand most of it and I start to lay the folder aside.
Then I spot a name that stops me —
Dowling
.
I raise the folder again and try reading the paragraph from the first line, but it doesn’t make sense taken out of context, so I flick back to the beginning of the chapter and start
from there.
I’m not a quick reader. Normally it takes me a long time to plough through a chunk of text. But, as the significance of what I’m reading sinks in, I find myself flying through the
pages.
After a while, I put the folder down and numbly pick
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