Read Online Zom-B City by Darren Shan - Free Book Online

He chased me. Almost killed me. I had to fight for my life. I managed to drive one of his chisels through his head.’
    Timothy lays down his sandwich and stares ahead at nothing.
    ‘That was when I created my first painting,’ he says softly. ‘I mixed Alan’s blood with the paint, careful to don gloves before touching it. I painted him as he was, lying there, teeth bared in a death snarl, the handle of the chisel sticking out of his skull. I wept as I painted, knowing it was beautiful, yet hating it at the same time. Part of me – the part that loves, cherishes, cares – died that day. It was a part that needed to die. It would have got in the way of my work.’
    He lapses into silence, his expression distant.
    ‘Do you still have that painting?’ I ask.
    ‘No. I burnt it and scattered the ashes over Alan’s corpse. It would have felt like theft if I’d taken it. That moment belonged to him. I didn’t want to steal it.’
    ‘But you’ve stolen all of these,’ I murmur, waving at the canvases.
    ‘Yes,’ he sighs. ‘I should feel guilty but I don’t. I can’t afford guilt or love or anything pure like that. To do my job, I have to be as passionless as the zombies I paint and run from.’ He smiles fleetingly. ‘That might be another reason why I’ve made it as far as I have. Maybe they realise, as they draw closer, that I’m not so different to them. In many ways I’m one of the walking dead as well . . .’
    Later Timothy asks if he can sketch me before he hits the sack. I sit for him patiently while he stares at the hole in my chest and tries to bring it to life on a canvas. He shows it to me when he’s done. My face is dimly painted with a mix of dark grey colours. All the focus is on the red and green mess around the hole where my boob should be. I hate the way I look in the drawing.
    ‘You don’t like it,’ Timothy notes, disappointed.
    ‘It’s just . . . am I really that ugly?’ I ask.
    He shakes his head. ‘You’re not ugly at all. But you’re a walking corpse. I have to show that, otherwise it won’t ring true.’
    ‘That’s how I look to you?’ I sniff. ‘Pale, distant, vicious?’
    ‘Not vicious,’ Timothy corrects me. ‘I would have said hungry . Not just for brains, but for your old life, a cure, the ability to be human again. You hunger for things you can no longer have, and that hunger brings you pain.’
    I think about that hours later, while Timothy sleeps. I’ve stayed in the room of paintings, studying them silently, looking for familiar faces. I am in pain, all the time, and it’s not just because I’m undead. I lost my parents and friends — whether they’re dead, alive or somewhere between, I’ll almost certainly never see them again. I threw an innocent boy to a pack of zombies. I killed humans when I turned. I failed to save Mark from the zom heads. I have blood on my hands. There’s rot in my soul.
    By rights, I should huddle up in a ball and howl, beg for pity, forgiveness, release. I should hurl myself off a tall building or find a gun and blow my brains out. In this cruel world, I can only experience more pain, ruin more lives, kill or infect. If Timothy stumbled when he was painting me, and I reached out to steady him, and one of my nails nicked his flesh . . .
    I stare at the monsters in the paintings. I’m no less monstrous than any of them. Maybe I’m worse, still being able to think. They have no choice in what they do, but I have. I could eliminate myself, make sure nobody ever suffered again at my twisted, wretched hands.
    But I keep thinking about the possibility of revitalising the rest of the undead hordes. If my blood could be used to restore consciousness in other zombies, it might help bring order back to this crazy, lethal world.
    In the morning, when Timothy awakes, I tell him I have to go.
    ‘You’re leaving?’ He blinks sleepily. ‘Did I say something to offend you?’
    ‘No,’ I smile. ‘But I can’t stay. There’s going to