Dowling who organised the early experiments, who decided the schedule, who set the date.
I never thought one man could wield so much power, so cunningly, so wickedly, so destructively. Or that such a man could keep beneath the radar, unknown to the masses, hidden by his underlings
even while he swept across the globe like an undead tsunami.
If these files had surfaced before the zombie uprising, they would have provided all the proof needed to blow Dowling’s cover, to expose him to the world for the foul-hearted fiend that he
was. But I’m not sure it would have made any real difference. He had so much support from those at the highest levels that I think he could have shrugged off the controversy and pushed ahead
regardless. Who could have stopped him when the people loyal to him controlled such massive swathes of government, the military, the media, the major religions?
I know now why Burke’s last word was
Dowling
. These files would have tipped any sane person over the edge. I was wrong to assume that my old teacher had run into Mr Dowling and that his brain had been messed with by the clown. It simply went into overload when he read these papers and
absorbed so much crushing information all at once.
I also realise that when I held Burke in my arms, and he croaked the word with his last living breath, I misunderstood his intentions. He was trying to warn me, yes, but of a far greater danger
than the one I imagined.
I thought I knew the name of my greatest enemy, but I only had it half right. These folders have shown me that the architect of humanity’s downfall wasn’t my husband, Mr Albrecht
Dowling, lunatic clown and all-round psycho killer.
It was his brother . . .
TWELVE
Dr Oystein Dowling.
THIRTEEN
I sit hunched over the folders, staring at the words, slowly flicking through the pages now. I feel sick, numb, betrayed.
There was only one person in this world that I believed in. One constant in my life that I clung to. No matter what else happened, I was sure I could put my faith in Dr Oystein, that he would
always stand by those who had pledged themselves to his noble cause, that he – maybe he alone among all the adults I’d ever known – was truly good.
How could I have been so wrong? How could he have fooled so many of us for all this time?
I must be mistaken. The folders have to be crammed with lies. The doc can’t be the bad guy. He
can’t
. Nobody that caring and loving could be evil at his core. A vicious
criminal mastermind couldn’t maintain a warm, considerate front, not for that long, not so artfully.
I need to ignore the files, the overwhelming evidence they present, the horrible documented neatness of it all. Look for flaws, discrepancies, forgeries. This is probably the work of
Mr Dowling’s mutants, or Owl Man, or the Board, someone who wants to turn Dr Oystein’s supporters against him. I have to mull this over and proceed cautiously, not make any rash
decisions until I’ve spoken with . . .
‘B?’
. . . Dr Oystein in the flesh.
I look up and he’s there. Standing before me, beaming, eyes filled with hope, love and concern.
‘I was so worried you wouldn’t be here,’ he cries, striding forward, extending his arms wide to hug me. ‘I was angry with the twins. One of them should have stayed with you. I had a sick feeling in my stomach all the way here. I was sure Mr Dowling’s men would find you and take
you from us again. I think I broke some records as I was racing across from Bow. I didn’t know I could run so . . .’
He draws to a halt, taking in my wounds, my sliced-to-ribbons face, my ruined torso, the crown of nails hammered into my head, the endless array of cuts, gouges and scars, the bloodsoaked
bandages. I’ve gone through all sorts of torments since the doc last saw me. He shakes his head, horrified.
‘Oh, B,’ he whispers. ‘What have they done to you?’
I stare at him blankly and say nothing.
‘Was this the work of Dan-Dan or
I never thought one man could wield so much power, so cunningly, so wickedly, so destructively. Or that such a man could keep beneath the radar, unknown to the masses, hidden by his underlings
even while he swept across the globe like an undead tsunami.
If these files had surfaced before the zombie uprising, they would have provided all the proof needed to blow Dowling’s cover, to expose him to the world for the foul-hearted fiend that he
was. But I’m not sure it would have made any real difference. He had so much support from those at the highest levels that I think he could have shrugged off the controversy and pushed ahead
regardless. Who could have stopped him when the people loyal to him controlled such massive swathes of government, the military, the media, the major religions?
I know now why Burke’s last word was
Dowling
. These files would have tipped any sane person over the edge. I was wrong to assume that my old teacher had run into Mr Dowling and that his brain had been messed with by the clown. It simply went into overload when he read these papers and
absorbed so much crushing information all at once.
I also realise that when I held Burke in my arms, and he croaked the word with his last living breath, I misunderstood his intentions. He was trying to warn me, yes, but of a far greater danger
than the one I imagined.
I thought I knew the name of my greatest enemy, but I only had it half right. These folders have shown me that the architect of humanity’s downfall wasn’t my husband, Mr Albrecht
Dowling, lunatic clown and all-round psycho killer.
It was his brother . . .
TWELVE
Dr Oystein Dowling.
THIRTEEN
I sit hunched over the folders, staring at the words, slowly flicking through the pages now. I feel sick, numb, betrayed.
There was only one person in this world that I believed in. One constant in my life that I clung to. No matter what else happened, I was sure I could put my faith in Dr Oystein, that he would
always stand by those who had pledged themselves to his noble cause, that he – maybe he alone among all the adults I’d ever known – was truly good.
How could I have been so wrong? How could he have fooled so many of us for all this time?
I must be mistaken. The folders have to be crammed with lies. The doc can’t be the bad guy. He
can’t
. Nobody that caring and loving could be evil at his core. A vicious
criminal mastermind couldn’t maintain a warm, considerate front, not for that long, not so artfully.
I need to ignore the files, the overwhelming evidence they present, the horrible documented neatness of it all. Look for flaws, discrepancies, forgeries. This is probably the work of
Mr Dowling’s mutants, or Owl Man, or the Board, someone who wants to turn Dr Oystein’s supporters against him. I have to mull this over and proceed cautiously, not make any rash
decisions until I’ve spoken with . . .
‘B?’
. . . Dr Oystein in the flesh.
I look up and he’s there. Standing before me, beaming, eyes filled with hope, love and concern.
‘I was so worried you wouldn’t be here,’ he cries, striding forward, extending his arms wide to hug me. ‘I was angry with the twins. One of them should have stayed with you. I had a sick feeling in my stomach all the way here. I was sure Mr Dowling’s men would find you and take
you from us again. I think I broke some records as I was racing across from Bow. I didn’t know I could run so . . .’
He draws to a halt, taking in my wounds, my sliced-to-ribbons face, my ruined torso, the crown of nails hammered into my head, the endless array of cuts, gouges and scars, the bloodsoaked
bandages. I’ve gone through all sorts of torments since the doc last saw me. He shakes his head, horrified.
‘Oh, B,’ he whispers. ‘What have they done to you?’
I stare at him blankly and say nothing.
‘Was this the work of Dan-Dan or
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