hoping it will come back to sniff me out if I don’t move. But in the end I have to accept that the dog has gone. I stare one last time at the spot where it was lying, then push on over the bridge, alone but not quite as lonely as I felt a few minutes before.
THIRTEEN
I glance at HMS
Belfast
as I’m crossing the bridge, remembering the last time I wandered past. There were people on-board then, heavily armed, and they opened fire as soon as they saw me. I’m too far away to see if they’re still there, but I’ve no wish to go check. Hostile hotheads with guns are best left to their own devices.
As I draw close to the Tower of London, I recall the Beefeater who tackled me when I tried to sneak past. I wonder if he’s still guarding the entrance, demanding a ticket from anyone who wants to enter.I bet he is. In an odd way I feel sorry for him. I’d like to take him some brains, a little surprise gift. I examine the corpses littered across the bridge, but their skulls have been scraped clean. Oh well, maybe another time.
I slowly make my way towards Whitechapel, then up Brick Lane. It feels like years since I was last here, even though it can’t be more than … what? Two months or so, and I spent a good deal of that in the Groove Tube. I blame my skewed perception on not being able to sleep. Time moves much more sluggishly when you can’t drop off at night.
I come to the Old Truman Brewery. The steel door is locked and there’s no sign of life inside. But then there wouldn’t be. Its artist-in-residence might be a God-obsessed nutter like Dr Oystein, but he’s smart enough to keep a low profile when at home. If he was in – which he probably isn’t, since the sun’s been up for quite a while and he’s an early starter – I wouldn’t know it from out here.
I don’t knock on the door or bellow the artist’s name. I could attract company if I did. Instead Ilower myself to the ground, sit by the door and wait, patient as a spider. It might be a waste of time – a zombie might have snagged him ages ago – but I’ve nothing better to be doing.
The day passes slowly. I miss Master Zhang – time flew by when I was training with him – and the Angels. Even a sneering match with Rage was preferable to sitting on my own on a deserted street all day.
I don’t see any other living or undead creatures, except for some rats who give me a wide berth. And insects of course. Lots and lots of insects. The streets are awash with them. Zombies have no interest in ant or cockroach brains, so they don’t hunt them. They’re not creeped out by insects either – it takes a lot to startle a walking corpse – so they don’t bother stamping on them or doing anything else to keep them in check.
I pass the hours counting the different types of insects that I see. I lose track a few times, until eventually I give up altogether. Then, late in the afternoon, I spot a man walking along, lugging an easel and whistling softly. I bet he doesn’t know thathe’s whistling. He must be doing it subconsciously, unaware of the noise he’s making. Even a soft whistle like that could bring a pack of zombies down on him, daylight or not.
He’s almost at the door before he spots me. As soon as he does, he yelps, drops the easel and turns to flee.
‘It’s all right, Timothy,’ I call. ‘It’s me, B.’
He pauses and looks back uncertainly. ‘Mee-bee?’
‘No, you dope.’ I stand, groaning as fresh pain flares in my battered bones. ‘It’s me — B. Becky Smith. Remember?’
Timothy’s expression clears. ‘Of course. B Smith, the talking zombie. I’m so delighted that you’re still going strong. How are you? What have you been up to?’
Timothy bounds forward, smiling widely, hand outstretched. He’s wearing the same sort of clothes as before, yellow trousers, a purple shirt, a tweed jacket. His brown hair is even longer than when I last saw him, shot through with streaks of paint. His eyes are still swamped by
THIRTEEN
I glance at HMS
Belfast
as I’m crossing the bridge, remembering the last time I wandered past. There were people on-board then, heavily armed, and they opened fire as soon as they saw me. I’m too far away to see if they’re still there, but I’ve no wish to go check. Hostile hotheads with guns are best left to their own devices.
As I draw close to the Tower of London, I recall the Beefeater who tackled me when I tried to sneak past. I wonder if he’s still guarding the entrance, demanding a ticket from anyone who wants to enter.I bet he is. In an odd way I feel sorry for him. I’d like to take him some brains, a little surprise gift. I examine the corpses littered across the bridge, but their skulls have been scraped clean. Oh well, maybe another time.
I slowly make my way towards Whitechapel, then up Brick Lane. It feels like years since I was last here, even though it can’t be more than … what? Two months or so, and I spent a good deal of that in the Groove Tube. I blame my skewed perception on not being able to sleep. Time moves much more sluggishly when you can’t drop off at night.
I come to the Old Truman Brewery. The steel door is locked and there’s no sign of life inside. But then there wouldn’t be. Its artist-in-residence might be a God-obsessed nutter like Dr Oystein, but he’s smart enough to keep a low profile when at home. If he was in – which he probably isn’t, since the sun’s been up for quite a while and he’s an early starter – I wouldn’t know it from out here.
I don’t knock on the door or bellow the artist’s name. I could attract company if I did. Instead Ilower myself to the ground, sit by the door and wait, patient as a spider. It might be a waste of time – a zombie might have snagged him ages ago – but I’ve nothing better to be doing.
The day passes slowly. I miss Master Zhang – time flew by when I was training with him – and the Angels. Even a sneering match with Rage was preferable to sitting on my own on a deserted street all day.
I don’t see any other living or undead creatures, except for some rats who give me a wide berth. And insects of course. Lots and lots of insects. The streets are awash with them. Zombies have no interest in ant or cockroach brains, so they don’t hunt them. They’re not creeped out by insects either – it takes a lot to startle a walking corpse – so they don’t bother stamping on them or doing anything else to keep them in check.
I pass the hours counting the different types of insects that I see. I lose track a few times, until eventually I give up altogether. Then, late in the afternoon, I spot a man walking along, lugging an easel and whistling softly. I bet he doesn’t know thathe’s whistling. He must be doing it subconsciously, unaware of the noise he’s making. Even a soft whistle like that could bring a pack of zombies down on him, daylight or not.
He’s almost at the door before he spots me. As soon as he does, he yelps, drops the easel and turns to flee.
‘It’s all right, Timothy,’ I call. ‘It’s me, B.’
He pauses and looks back uncertainly. ‘Mee-bee?’
‘No, you dope.’ I stand, groaning as fresh pain flares in my battered bones. ‘It’s me — B. Becky Smith. Remember?’
Timothy’s expression clears. ‘Of course. B Smith, the talking zombie. I’m so delighted that you’re still going strong. How are you? What have you been up to?’
Timothy bounds forward, smiling widely, hand outstretched. He’s wearing the same sort of clothes as before, yellow trousers, a purple shirt, a tweed jacket. His brown hair is even longer than when I last saw him, shot through with streaks of paint. His eyes are still swamped by
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