Zom-B Gladiator

Book 6: Zom-B

by Darren Shan

Genres: YA Horror

Synopsis

Beyond a shadow of a doubt, B Smith has decided to live—and to fight for good as long as possible. However, London is overridden with the brain-eating undead and swarming with human mercenaries whose sense of right and wrong dissolved when society did. When they lay a trap, B is captured. And it’ll take dozens of battles—and the fight of a lifetime—to escape.

Filled with gripping, bloody action sequences, the sixth book in Darren Shan’s horrifying Zom-B series promises the fright—and the fight—of your life.

A Blackstone Audio production.

Release date: January 7, 2014

Publisher: Little, Brown Books for Young Readers

Print pages: 160

Sample

There’s a tunnel beneath Waterloo Station that used to be a haven for graffiti artists. Anyone was allowed to paint whatever they wanted on the walls, floor or ceiling.

The zombies put a stop to the artists with their stencils and spray paint, but the art remains, bright, bold and colorful. It covers every inch of the tunnel. If humans ever eliminate the undead and take control of the world again, I bet a lot of people will come to this place to admire the paintings.

But I’m not here today for the graffiti.

I’m here for the zombies.

We usually keep this tunnel clear of the living dead. It’s easily done. Zombies have sensitive ears. High-pitched noises cut through our skulls and make our teeth shake. When Dr. Oystein moved into County Hall, he placed speakers in hidden places around the area and played a loop of sharp noises through them, guaranteed to send any zombie within range running for cover. It keeps the drooling, brain-hungry riffraff from our door.

But we haven’t been playing the loop in the tunnel for the last few nights. We wanted company and figured the dark, quiet space would draw a crowd once we cut the power to the speakers.

We figured right. There are twenty-five or thirty zombies in residence, a mix of men, women and kids, some in suits or nice dresses, others in more casual wear, a few naked or close enough. Blank expressions, long, sharp teeth, bones sticking out of their fingers and toes, wisps of green moss wherever they were bitten or cut when they were alive.

I study the zombies with a touch of nerves, but no disgust, revulsion or pity. They’re my own kind. Except for the fact that my brain works, I’m no different than them.

I’m part of a group of six. The others are the same as me, revitalized Angels, soldiers in Dr. Oystein’s undead army. Carl Clay stands to my left, looking impeccable in his top-of-the-range, designer gear. Ashtat Kiarostami is to my right, dressed in a blue, loose-fitting suit, with a white headscarf. The bulky Rage is on the other side of Carl, wearing the leathers that he’s favored since his time as a zom head. Shane Fitz and Jakob Pegg are next to Ashtat, Shane looking like a gangster wannabe in a tracksuit and with a gold chain dangling from his neck, Jakob pale and sickly in a pair of jeans and a shirt that sags on his bony frame.

We’re all unarmed.

“Do you think there are enough of them?” Carl asks, frowning as he counts the zombies.

“Five to one,” Shane sniffs. “Those are good enough odds for me. How many more do you want to face?”

“There aren’t many men among them,” Carl notes.

“Are you suggesting that women are inferior?” Ashtat asks coldly.

Carl winces. “No. But generally speaking they’re not as strong as men. It’s the way of the world. You can’t argue with that.”

“In life, no,” Ashtat says. “But death levels the playing field. I have noticed no real difference between the sexes in our battles so far. Muscles are not the factor they once were, not in reviveds. Or revitalizeds,” she adds pointedly.

Carl makes a sighing sound, which isn’t easy when you don’t have functioning lungs. “All right. I don’t want an argument. Are we all happy to press ahead? We don’t want to wait another day in case more of them come to seek shelter here?” He looks around and everyone shrugs or nods. “Fair enough. We’ll crack on. How about you, Reilly? Are you ready?”

The soldier is standing behind us. He’s not a happy bunny.

“I can’t believe I let Zhang talk me into this,” he mutters. He’s sweating. That’s something no revitalized could ever mimic. The walking dead don’t sweat.

“Don’t be a baby,” Rage grins. “We’ve all got to be prepared to make sacrifices for the cause.”

“Yeah?” Reilly snarls. “What have you sacrificed lately?”

“My sense of compassion,” Rage snaps. “Now quit moaning or we’ll leave you here by yourself. Are you ready or not?”

“I suppose,” Reilly mutters miserably. He’s really not enjoying this. I don’t blame him. It can’t be easy, placing your life in the hands of a surly shower of teenage zombies.

Ashtat and I nudge apart and Reilly steps through the gap. He’s covered himself from the neck down in thick leathers and he’s wearing a helmet with a tough glass visor. The gear won’t protect him for long if a zombie gets hold of him and rips in, but it should guard him against casual swipes, spit and flying blood.

Reilly moves a couple of meters ahead of us, gulps, then calls out loudly, “I don’t suppose any of you creeps have seen Banksy?”

The zombies didn’t pay much attention to us when we filed in. They could tell from our moss-covered wounds and the bones jutting out of our fingertips that we were in the same boat as them.

Reilly is a whole different kettle of fish. When he shouts, they jerk to attention and lock their sights on him. They note his covered form, his shaky grin behind the visor. They clock his heartbeat. They smell his blood, fresh and pure, his sweat, the scent of the food he ate that morning on his lips and tongue, his juicy brain.

The zombies howl with glee and hunger, a penetrating, fearsome sound. Then they move as one and surge towards us, fingers flexing, teeth gnashing, primed, deadly assassins whose only purpose in this world is to attack and tear asunder.

It’s killing time!

We dart ahead of Reilly and tackle the onrushing zombies. I run into a woman who is wearing a bra and knickers and nothing else. There are curlers in her hair. Looks like the living dead caught her at home when she was getting ready to go out.

I strike swiftly at the woman, a flurry of blows to her face and neck. She snarls and tries to hit back. I turn quickly, raising my leg high, and kick the back of her head as I spin. She’s slammed sideways. I’m on her instantly. Making the fingers of my right hand straight and hard, I drive the bones sticking out of them down sharply into her skull, piercing the covering of bone, digging into the vulnerable brain beneath.

The woman shudders, makes a low moaning noise, then falls still. I withdraw my hand and leave her to lie in the dust of the tunnel, truly dead now.

A man is rushing past me, hands outstretched, reaching for Reilly. I elbow him in the ribs. I can’t knock the wind out of his sails–there’s no wind in them to begin with–but the force of the blow sends him off course. As he staggers, I follow after him, fingers ready to crack open another head and rid the city of one more zombie.

I don’t like doing this. I refused to kill reviveds when I was a prisoner in the military complex. But Dr. Oystein has convinced me that it’s necessary. If we are to triumph in the war to come, we need to sharpen ourselves in combat. So, as much as I hate it, I kill as ordered, but I do it quickly and cleanly, not wanting to torment these poor lost souls.

The other Angels are busy around me. Each of us has a different ability and we’ve all been trained by Master Zhang to focus on our strengths. We’ve been told to test specific skills today, to only deviate from them if absolutely necessary. Mine is the speed with which I can strike—I have quick hands and feet, very nimble.

Ashtat is our pack’s version of the Karate Kid. She whirls gracefully around the tunnel, chopping and kicking, leaping high into the air to casually swing a foot at a man’s head—a second later it’s been knocked clear of his neck. She lands smoothly, pounces after the head, comes down on it with a well-placed heel to squish the brain and put the zombie out of action.

Rage is a one-man wrecking machine. He’s the strongest of us all. He lets his opponents get close, then clubs them over the. . .