Dad loved it and he often talked about this place. He worked here for a while when he was a teenager. The stories he told werealmost enough to turn me vegetarian. But as much as he’d spin wild tales about what went into the pies and liquor, he always swore this was the best pie and mash shop in London.
They used to do jellied eels too, and that reminds me of a guy I haven’t thought about since finding my way to County Hall. Pursing my lips, I nod and carry on, a girl with a purpose, having made up my mind to go in pursuit of an actual target rather than just wander aimlessly.
As I’m coming to the junction of Tower Bridge Road and Tooley Street, I draw to a surprised halt and do a double take. Then I remove my sunglasses, just to be absolutely sure.
There’s a sheepdog in the middle of the road.
The dog is lying down, clear of all the buildings, keeping a careful watch on the area around it, though it must be hard with all that hair over its eyes. It has a beautiful white chest, running to grey further back. Its hair is encrusted with dirt and old bloodstains. It pants softly and its tail swishes gently behind it.
I watch the dog for several minutes without moving. Finally, as if hypnotised, I start forward again, taking slow, cautious steps. The dog spots me and growls, getting to its feet immediately.
‘It’s all right,’ I murmur. ‘I’m not gonna hurt you. You’re gorgeous. How have you survived this long? Are you lonely like me? I’m sure you are.’
The dog scrapes the road with its claws and growls again, but doesn’t bark. It must have figured out that barking attracts unwanted attention. Zombies don’t like the daylight, but they’ll come out if tempted. There aren’t many large animals left in this city — most of them were long ago hunted down and torn apart by brain-hungry reviveds. This dog knows that it has to be silent if it wants to survive.
I stop a safe distance from the dog and smile at it. I want it to trust me and come to me. I picture the pair of us teaming up, keeping each other company, me looking out for the dog and protecting it from zombies, while in return it helps me find fresh brains. This could be the start of a beautiful friendship.
‘You and me aren’t that different,’ I tell the dog. ‘Survivors in a place where we aren’t wanted. Alone, wary, weary. You should have headed out to the countryside. You’d be safer there. The pickings might be richer here but the dangers are much greater. Why haven’t you left?’
The dog stares at me with an indecipherable expression. I don’t know if it sees me as a threat or a possible mistress. Hell, maybe it sees me as lunch! I doubt a dog like this could be much of a threat, but maybe it’s tougher than it looks. It might have survived by preying on zombies, ripping their throats open, using the element of surprise to attack and bring them down.
I spread my arms and chuckle at the thought of being taken out by a sheepdog. ‘I’m all yours if you want me. I’ve no idea what zombies taste like, but anything must be better than rat.’
The dog shakes its head. I know it’s just coincidence, that it can’t understand what I’m saying, but I laugh with delight anyway.
‘Stay here,’ I tell it. ‘I’ll fetch a bone for you to chew and a ball to play with.’
I start to turn, to go and search the shops of Tower Bridge Road. As soon as I move, the dog takes off, tearing down the street to my right, headed east.
‘Wait!’ I yell after it. ‘Don’t go. I won’t hurt you. Come back. Please …’
But the dog isn’t listening. I don’t blame it. I wouldn’t trust a zombie either, even one who can speak. It won’t have lasted this long by taking chances. A creature in that position will have learnt to treat every possible threat as a very real challenge to its existence. Better to run and live than gamble and die.
I stay where I am for a while, reliving my encounter with the dog, smiling at the memory,
They used to do jellied eels too, and that reminds me of a guy I haven’t thought about since finding my way to County Hall. Pursing my lips, I nod and carry on, a girl with a purpose, having made up my mind to go in pursuit of an actual target rather than just wander aimlessly.
As I’m coming to the junction of Tower Bridge Road and Tooley Street, I draw to a surprised halt and do a double take. Then I remove my sunglasses, just to be absolutely sure.
There’s a sheepdog in the middle of the road.
The dog is lying down, clear of all the buildings, keeping a careful watch on the area around it, though it must be hard with all that hair over its eyes. It has a beautiful white chest, running to grey further back. Its hair is encrusted with dirt and old bloodstains. It pants softly and its tail swishes gently behind it.
I watch the dog for several minutes without moving. Finally, as if hypnotised, I start forward again, taking slow, cautious steps. The dog spots me and growls, getting to its feet immediately.
‘It’s all right,’ I murmur. ‘I’m not gonna hurt you. You’re gorgeous. How have you survived this long? Are you lonely like me? I’m sure you are.’
The dog scrapes the road with its claws and growls again, but doesn’t bark. It must have figured out that barking attracts unwanted attention. Zombies don’t like the daylight, but they’ll come out if tempted. There aren’t many large animals left in this city — most of them were long ago hunted down and torn apart by brain-hungry reviveds. This dog knows that it has to be silent if it wants to survive.
I stop a safe distance from the dog and smile at it. I want it to trust me and come to me. I picture the pair of us teaming up, keeping each other company, me looking out for the dog and protecting it from zombies, while in return it helps me find fresh brains. This could be the start of a beautiful friendship.
‘You and me aren’t that different,’ I tell the dog. ‘Survivors in a place where we aren’t wanted. Alone, wary, weary. You should have headed out to the countryside. You’d be safer there. The pickings might be richer here but the dangers are much greater. Why haven’t you left?’
The dog stares at me with an indecipherable expression. I don’t know if it sees me as a threat or a possible mistress. Hell, maybe it sees me as lunch! I doubt a dog like this could be much of a threat, but maybe it’s tougher than it looks. It might have survived by preying on zombies, ripping their throats open, using the element of surprise to attack and bring them down.
I spread my arms and chuckle at the thought of being taken out by a sheepdog. ‘I’m all yours if you want me. I’ve no idea what zombies taste like, but anything must be better than rat.’
The dog shakes its head. I know it’s just coincidence, that it can’t understand what I’m saying, but I laugh with delight anyway.
‘Stay here,’ I tell it. ‘I’ll fetch a bone for you to chew and a ball to play with.’
I start to turn, to go and search the shops of Tower Bridge Road. As soon as I move, the dog takes off, tearing down the street to my right, headed east.
‘Wait!’ I yell after it. ‘Don’t go. I won’t hurt you. Come back. Please …’
But the dog isn’t listening. I don’t blame it. I wouldn’t trust a zombie either, even one who can speak. It won’t have lasted this long by taking chances. A creature in that position will have learnt to treat every possible threat as a very real challenge to its existence. Better to run and live than gamble and die.
I stay where I am for a while, reliving my encounter with the dog, smiling at the memory,
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