ZOM-B 11 Read Online Free PDF Page A

tell me about . . .’ I
think for a moment, then add jokingly, ‘. . . killing, in return.’
    ‘
oh good
,’ the baby says, taking my joke seriously, and I can sense its innocent yet chilling grin even though I can’t see its face. ‘
i know lots about
that.
’

SIX
    Holy Moly is as good as its word. We slip through the tunnels like a pair of ghosts. Occasionally we hear echoes of mutants in the distance, but we don’t encounter any of them as we wind
our way across the city, and eventually all of the noises dwindle away completely.
    Talking is an effort, so I don’t tell the baby as many tales as I meant to, and I definitely don’t push it to tell me any horrible stories about killing, even though it’s
indicated that it would be only too keen to share them with me. Holy Moly doesn’t mind. It’s happy to march along in silence, delighted to be of service to its
mummy
.
    Sheer stubbornness keeps me going. I’m wrecked. I should lie down and rest for hours, maybe days. But I’m not convinced I’d find the strength to rise again if I stopped, so I
force myself on.
    I think of my reception at County Hall when I’m feeling especially weary. I try to imagine what it will be like, Dr Oystein embracing me, distraught when he sees my wounds, stunned and
delighted when I reveal the vial of Schlesinger-10.
    That moment will mark the beginning of our end. Once the doc has secured the vial, he’ll uncork his sample of Clements-13 and the deadly fumes will start working their way through the air.
He expects the virus to spread across the globe within a couple of weeks, killing every zombie that it infects. In a fortnight’s time this world will belong to the living again.
    I wonder if they’ll mark our passing when we’re gone, if there’ll be plaques or statues to commemorate my name, Dr Oystein’s, the rest of the Angels. Or will they
try to forget about this squalid, terrible time? Maybe they’ll wipe all trace of us from the history books, or claim the victory as their own. They might not want their children and grandchildren to grow up feeling indebted to
a raggedy mob of the undead.
    I’m not bothered either way. Like the doc, I’m not in this for the glory. I just want to do what I can to help, then check out of this hurtful world. True death will be a relief
after this wretched, inbetween state.
    But linking up with Dr Oystein again . . . handing over the vial . . . hearing the Angels cheer my name . . .
    Yeah,
that
will be nice. All modesty aside, I can’t wait for my moment in the spotlight. I’ll be getting the stamp of approval from the only people I really feel close to.
The rest of the world can keep its statues and busts. If Dr Oystein says he’s proud of me, and the Angels salute me, I can die a happy girl.
    ‘
happy mummy
,’ Holy Moly mumbles, reading my thoughts.
    ‘Very happy.’ I smile in the darkness. ‘Are you happy too?’
    ‘
i’m happy if mummy’s happy
,’ the baby says.
    That simple statement makes my heart ache — or the memory of it anyway. I wish we could spare the babies. It’s not fair that they have to perish along with the rest of us.
    ‘You deserve better than this,’ I tell Holy Moly. And I mean it. They might be savage little killing machines, but that’s not their fault. They’re capable of love too.
Innocent in many ways. They could have been turned to the cause of good if they’d had Dr Oystein as a father figure instead of the psychotic clown. As things stand, they don’t
understand the difference between good and evil. Nobody’s ever taught them.
    I trudge along, my spirits sinking, thinking of all that must be sacrificed once my mission is complete. But the future of the living has to come before all other concerns. This was their planet
first and we have to hand it back. That’s been my priority since I returned to consciousness. Even before I stumbled upon Dr Oystein and his Angels in County Hall, I was trying to help those
who