stumbling after rats – the disabled woman launches herself from her wheelchair when she senses a kill, then sullenly drags herself back into itafterwards – but the fanged little beasts are too swift for them.
I know from chatting with the Angels that some zombies hole up in a particular place and stay there. Jakob did that when he was a revived, made his base in the crypt of St Martin-in-the-Fields. But these guys don’t have that inclination, and rather than head back to the market when dawn breaks, they nudge into a house just off the New Kent Road and make a nest for the day.
The disabled woman struggles to mount the step into the house. She moans softly but the others don’t help her. Finally she throws herself forward, leaving the chair to rest outside until she re-emerges when it’s night again.
I stand by the wheelchair, scratching my head and scowling. I’d hoped to make a connection with the zombies of Borough Market, slot in with them, find a place to call my own. As deranged as they are, many still function as they did in the past, driven by instinct and habit to behave as they did when they were alive. I thought the locals of the market mightgrow used to me, nod at me when they saw me, invite me to hunt and eat with them.
Doesn’t look like that’s the case, not if this pack is anything to go by. They hunt together for some unknown reason, but they have no real sense of kinship. It’s every zombie for him or herself.
I could go back and try again, follow another group when night falls and see if they prove any brighter or more welcoming. But what’s the point? I’m not the same as these poor, lost souls, and there’s nothing to be gained by pretending that I am. Why the hell would they bother about an outsider like me when they don’t even truly care about their own?
‘You’re a mug, B,’ I mutter. ‘And getting muggier every day.’
With a sigh, I turn my back on the house of zombies and head off on my own again. If a home exists for me in this city, it isn’t among the reviveds. Not unless I choose to go without brains for a week or two. I’d revert if I didn’t eat, lose my mind, become one of them.
It doesn’t sound like much of an option, but I consider it seriously as I hobble away. After all, what’s worse, having company as a brain-dead savage, or remaining in control of your senses but feeling lonely as hell all the time?
TWELVE
I can’t tolerate the daylight without clothes. My skin itches like mad and my eyes feel as if they’re being burnt from the inside out. So I make for the shopping centre in the Elephant and Castle. It’s hardly a shopping mecca, but I find jeans, a T-shirt, a hoodie, a baseball cap and a jacket with a high collar. I pull on gloves and a few pairs of socks, finish up by tracking down some sunglasses.
I pick up a bottle of eye drops in a chemist’s, and squirt in some of the contents while there. My eyes would dry out without regular treatment. I wouldn’t go blind, but my vision would worsen.
I’m also going to need heavy-duty files for my fast-growing teeth and bones, since I left all mine at County Hall, but I can sort those out later. It will be a few days before my teeth start to bother me. Hell, maybe I’ll just let the buggers grow. I mean, if I don’t have anyone to chat with, what difference does it make?
Kitted out, and having ripped a hole in the front of the hoodie and T-shirt to reveal my chest cavity, I head back up the New Kent Road. I’m still in a lot of pain from the fall off the Eye, but I can cope with it as long as I don’t rush. I’ve dealt with worse in the not too distant past.
I come to a roundabout and swing left on to Tower Bridge Road. I take my time, checking out the windows of old shops, acting like a tourist. I pause sadly when I come to Manze’s, an old-style pie and mash shop, where they soak the pies and mashed potatoes in a sickly green sauce known as liquor. I wasn’t into that sort of grub, but
I know from chatting with the Angels that some zombies hole up in a particular place and stay there. Jakob did that when he was a revived, made his base in the crypt of St Martin-in-the-Fields. But these guys don’t have that inclination, and rather than head back to the market when dawn breaks, they nudge into a house just off the New Kent Road and make a nest for the day.
The disabled woman struggles to mount the step into the house. She moans softly but the others don’t help her. Finally she throws herself forward, leaving the chair to rest outside until she re-emerges when it’s night again.
I stand by the wheelchair, scratching my head and scowling. I’d hoped to make a connection with the zombies of Borough Market, slot in with them, find a place to call my own. As deranged as they are, many still function as they did in the past, driven by instinct and habit to behave as they did when they were alive. I thought the locals of the market mightgrow used to me, nod at me when they saw me, invite me to hunt and eat with them.
Doesn’t look like that’s the case, not if this pack is anything to go by. They hunt together for some unknown reason, but they have no real sense of kinship. It’s every zombie for him or herself.
I could go back and try again, follow another group when night falls and see if they prove any brighter or more welcoming. But what’s the point? I’m not the same as these poor, lost souls, and there’s nothing to be gained by pretending that I am. Why the hell would they bother about an outsider like me when they don’t even truly care about their own?
‘You’re a mug, B,’ I mutter. ‘And getting muggier every day.’
With a sigh, I turn my back on the house of zombies and head off on my own again. If a home exists for me in this city, it isn’t among the reviveds. Not unless I choose to go without brains for a week or two. I’d revert if I didn’t eat, lose my mind, become one of them.
It doesn’t sound like much of an option, but I consider it seriously as I hobble away. After all, what’s worse, having company as a brain-dead savage, or remaining in control of your senses but feeling lonely as hell all the time?
TWELVE
I can’t tolerate the daylight without clothes. My skin itches like mad and my eyes feel as if they’re being burnt from the inside out. So I make for the shopping centre in the Elephant and Castle. It’s hardly a shopping mecca, but I find jeans, a T-shirt, a hoodie, a baseball cap and a jacket with a high collar. I pull on gloves and a few pairs of socks, finish up by tracking down some sunglasses.
I pick up a bottle of eye drops in a chemist’s, and squirt in some of the contents while there. My eyes would dry out without regular treatment. I wouldn’t go blind, but my vision would worsen.
I’m also going to need heavy-duty files for my fast-growing teeth and bones, since I left all mine at County Hall, but I can sort those out later. It will be a few days before my teeth start to bother me. Hell, maybe I’ll just let the buggers grow. I mean, if I don’t have anyone to chat with, what difference does it make?
Kitted out, and having ripped a hole in the front of the hoodie and T-shirt to reveal my chest cavity, I head back up the New Kent Road. I’m still in a lot of pain from the fall off the Eye, but I can cope with it as long as I don’t rush. I’ve dealt with worse in the not too distant past.
I come to a roundabout and swing left on to Tower Bridge Road. I take my time, checking out the windows of old shops, acting like a tourist. I pause sadly when I come to Manze’s, an old-style pie and mash shop, where they soak the pies and mashed potatoes in a sickly green sauce known as liquor. I wasn’t into that sort of grub, but
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