Read Online Zom-B City by Darren Shan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Darren Shan
Tags: Speculative Fiction
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ball. I’m a good girl, I am.’
The Beefeater squints at me. I offer a shaky smile. He grunts and gets off, studying me suspiciously, as if he thinks I’m going to try and trick him.
Shaking my head with disbelief, I get to my feet and make for the ticket office which I passed on my way. The windows have been smashed in. I lean over the counter and grab a ticket from the nearest machine. Returning to the gate, I hand the ticket to the jobsworth of a zombie Beefeater. He takes it from me, nods gruffly and returns to his post, letting me through.
Unbe-bloody-lievable!
I go on a tour of the famous buildings, but most are packed with zombies – including a lot of overweight tourists who probably prefer their brains in batter and deep-fried – so I stick to the paths for the most part. I’m sorry I didn’t come when it was operational. I couldn’t care less about the Crown jewels, but I’d have loved to learn more about the prisoners who were held here and all the heads that were chopped off.
I recall the legend that if the ravens ever fled the Tower or died out, the city would fall. I always dismissed that as a story most likely cooked up by a raven-handler who wanted to make sure he was never driven out of a job. But as I wander, I note glumly that there isn’t a bird to be seen, apart from a few brittle bones, beaks and feathers.
Coincidence? Probably. But it gives me a mild dose of the creeps all the same. Did some scraggly, wild-eyed soothsayer predict this disaster all those centuries ago? Was this plague of the living dead always destined to happen? Uneasy, I push on sooner than I’d meant to, waving goodbye to the Beefeater as I pass, no hard feelings. In an odd sort of way I respect him. He’s stuck true to his principles, even in death. I don’t mind that he roughed me up. In his position I like to think that I’d do the same.
I cross Tower Bridge. It hasn’t escaped the turmoil unscathed. A plane came down in this area – I guess a zombie must have got onboard and caused chaos – and chunks of the wreckage are lying in the river where it crashed. On its way, it took out the two walkways at the top of the bridge, smashing straight through them. The towers that they were attached to weren’t damaged. It’s as if someone came along and snipped off the connecting tunnels with a giant pair of scissors.
Rubble from the walkways is strewn across the road and footpaths, so I have to zigzag my way across. I pause at the point where the two halves of the bridge meet. How cool would it be if I found the engine rooms and raised the drawbridge!
I grin as I imagine it, then shake my head regretfully. Time might be on my side, but I don’t have that much to play with. Besides, I’m not a child. I’m on a deadly serious mission. This is proper, grown-up business.
The strangely-shaped, glass-fronted mayor’s building is gleaming in the sun, half-blinding me. I hurry on past and head for HMS Belfast , thinking I might go for a stroll around the deck. But as I approach, I spot humans onboard. They’ve barricaded the gangway and several are standing guard, heavy rifles hanging by their sides. As I stare at the living people, bewildered to find them here, one of them spots me, raises his gun and opens fire.
Yelping, I duck out of sight and wait for the bullets to stop. When they do, I take off my jacket and wave it at the people on the boat.
‘Ahoy!’ I roar, getting all nautical. ‘My name’s B Smith. I don’t mean you any harm. I want to –’
The guy starts shooting again before I can finish. Bullets rip through my jacket and one almost blows a couple of my fingers off. Cursing, I drop the jacket, then yank it to safety. I don’t know who the people on the boat are, but they clearly like their own company, and when someone’s armed to the teeth and quick on the trigger, a wise girl gives them all the space in the world that they want.
I detour via Tooley Street. I remember Dad telling me that
The Beefeater squints at me. I offer a shaky smile. He grunts and gets off, studying me suspiciously, as if he thinks I’m going to try and trick him.
Shaking my head with disbelief, I get to my feet and make for the ticket office which I passed on my way. The windows have been smashed in. I lean over the counter and grab a ticket from the nearest machine. Returning to the gate, I hand the ticket to the jobsworth of a zombie Beefeater. He takes it from me, nods gruffly and returns to his post, letting me through.
Unbe-bloody-lievable!
I go on a tour of the famous buildings, but most are packed with zombies – including a lot of overweight tourists who probably prefer their brains in batter and deep-fried – so I stick to the paths for the most part. I’m sorry I didn’t come when it was operational. I couldn’t care less about the Crown jewels, but I’d have loved to learn more about the prisoners who were held here and all the heads that were chopped off.
I recall the legend that if the ravens ever fled the Tower or died out, the city would fall. I always dismissed that as a story most likely cooked up by a raven-handler who wanted to make sure he was never driven out of a job. But as I wander, I note glumly that there isn’t a bird to be seen, apart from a few brittle bones, beaks and feathers.
Coincidence? Probably. But it gives me a mild dose of the creeps all the same. Did some scraggly, wild-eyed soothsayer predict this disaster all those centuries ago? Was this plague of the living dead always destined to happen? Uneasy, I push on sooner than I’d meant to, waving goodbye to the Beefeater as I pass, no hard feelings. In an odd sort of way I respect him. He’s stuck true to his principles, even in death. I don’t mind that he roughed me up. In his position I like to think that I’d do the same.
I cross Tower Bridge. It hasn’t escaped the turmoil unscathed. A plane came down in this area – I guess a zombie must have got onboard and caused chaos – and chunks of the wreckage are lying in the river where it crashed. On its way, it took out the two walkways at the top of the bridge, smashing straight through them. The towers that they were attached to weren’t damaged. It’s as if someone came along and snipped off the connecting tunnels with a giant pair of scissors.
Rubble from the walkways is strewn across the road and footpaths, so I have to zigzag my way across. I pause at the point where the two halves of the bridge meet. How cool would it be if I found the engine rooms and raised the drawbridge!
I grin as I imagine it, then shake my head regretfully. Time might be on my side, but I don’t have that much to play with. Besides, I’m not a child. I’m on a deadly serious mission. This is proper, grown-up business.
The strangely-shaped, glass-fronted mayor’s building is gleaming in the sun, half-blinding me. I hurry on past and head for HMS Belfast , thinking I might go for a stroll around the deck. But as I approach, I spot humans onboard. They’ve barricaded the gangway and several are standing guard, heavy rifles hanging by their sides. As I stare at the living people, bewildered to find them here, one of them spots me, raises his gun and opens fire.
Yelping, I duck out of sight and wait for the bullets to stop. When they do, I take off my jacket and wave it at the people on the boat.
‘Ahoy!’ I roar, getting all nautical. ‘My name’s B Smith. I don’t mean you any harm. I want to –’
The guy starts shooting again before I can finish. Bullets rip through my jacket and one almost blows a couple of my fingers off. Cursing, I drop the jacket, then yank it to safety. I don’t know who the people on the boat are, but they clearly like their own company, and when someone’s armed to the teeth and quick on the trigger, a wise girl gives them all the space in the world that they want.
I detour via Tooley Street. I remember Dad telling me that
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