B Smith and the other Angels are relieved to finally receive their first mission—to safely escort a group of human survivors from the zombie-infested streets of London to New Kirkham, a barricaded safe haven in the country.
But after battling through crowds of undead monsters, B discovers that the survivors of the town do not necessarily represent the best of humanity. And when evil influences make their way to New Kirkham, unearthing demons from B’s past, the humans will be forced to choose between being honorable and being safe.
Darren Shan continues his adventures of a teenage zombie trying to right the wrongs of a flawed human life, exploring the morality and ills of society through the lens of an apocalypse gone wrong—and a terrifying hell on earth reigning.
A Blackstone Audio production.
Release date:
April 8, 2014
Publisher:
Little, Brown Books for Young Readers
Print pages:
192
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I’m in Timothy’s gallery, the Old Truman Brewery, on Brick Lane. It’s quiet and cool. Daylight filters through the cracks in the boards covering the windows.
The last thing Timothy asked, before he was killed by a mob of zombies, was that I take care of his paintings. He thought he had been given a commission by God, that it was his duty to record the downfall of London, so that future generations could study his pictures of this terrible time and learn from them.
Timothy was mad as a hatter but he was a nice guy. I feel like I owe him, since I was the one who set free the grisly baby who called the zombies down upon him, so I’ve come here several times since he died, to dump the food he had stocked up, wash the bloodstains from the floor and generally make sure that everything is in order.
There are hundreds of paintings stacked against the walls, spread throughout the various rooms. Some are hanging too. I rotate the pictures on display whenever I come, swapping them round, choosing new examples from the many on offer. I think Timothy would have liked that.
I’m holding one of the paintings, studying it critically, trying to decide whether or not it deserves a spot on the wall. It’s a painting of a zombie tucking into the skull of a dead woman. It must have been dangerous for Timothy, getting that close, but he was always reckless. Anything to get a good angle.
A wildflower sprouts from a crack in the pavement close to the dead woman’s head. It’s more brightly colored than the corpse or the zombie, its petals painted in glorious yellows and pinks. The flower makes this painting stand out, but at the same time it makes it look a bit arty-farty. I’m sure the flower was real–Timothy only painted what he saw–but because of the way he’s highlighted it, it doesn’t look real.
I know I’m being silly, hesitating like this. Nobody’s going to pass through here anytime soon. I’m Timothy’s only audience, and probably will continue to be for many years to come. It makes no difference whether I give this pride of place on a wall or jam it behind a load of other paintings.
Still, it matters to me. I never paid much attention to art when I was alive, but I’ve been getting into it since I settled in at County Hall. I’ve spent much of my free time scouring galleries and reading about the history of art. It’s become an interesting hobby, a way of keeping boredom at bay when I’m not training with the other Angels.
I’ve no artistic talent, but arranging Timothy’s paintings is a way for me to creatively express myself. So I study the painting with the flower one last time, forehead creased as if I’m attempting to crack a difficult puzzle. Finally I snort and return it to the pile, at least for the time being. I might grant it wall space in the future, but not today.
As I’m carefully slotting the painting back into place, there’s a loud thumping sound on the staircase behind me.
I whirl and adopt a defensive position. I flex my fingers, getting ready to slash with the bones sticking out of them if I’m attacked. I don’t have a heart, not since it was ripped from my chest, but my mind remembers what anxiety was like when I was alive, and I imagine the sound of my quickening heartbeat inside my head.
I don’t call out. I don’t move. I just stand silently and wait.
There’s another thumping noise, this time closer to the top of the stairs. I grit my teeth and suppress a shiver. Zombies don’t scare me. Nor do the living. But this could be Mr. Dowling, Owl Man or that nightmarish baby. Maybe it sniffed me out and returned to finish the job. It let me go when it was here before. Maybe it changed its mind and came back to send me the way of poor Timothy.
Another thump, this one almost at the very top stair. I frown. By now I should be able to see whoever is making the noise. But there’s no sign of anyone.
The silence stretches out. Then someone moans my name.
“Beckyyyyyy…”
I growl softly and relax. “You think you’re clever, don’t you?”
“I don’t think it,” comes the cheerful response. “I know it!”
Then Rage stands up from where he had been lying on the stairs and grins at me. I shoot him the finger and go back to appraising the paintings, trying to act as if the annoying hulk isn’t here, hiding my relief, not wanting him to know that he really did spook me. Admit to being scared? Not in this unlife! And definitely not to a cynical, bullying piece of trash like Rage. I’d rather claw out my own eyes than give that creep the satisfaction of knowing how close he’d come to making a dead girl shiver.
“Aren’t you surprised to see me?” Rage asks when I continue to ignore him.
“Nothing about you surprises me,” I sniff.
“Don’t you want to know how I found you?” he presses.
“I’m guessing you followed me from County Hall.”
Rage chuckles and scratches the hole in his left cheek where he was bitten by a zombie when he was turned. Wisps of green moss sprout from it, like the world’s worst designer beard.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Rage says. “I wouldn’t waste my time following the likes of you.”
“Yet here you are…” I purr.
“I’m not alone,” he says. “My partner wanted to check this place out.”
“What poor sap is lonely and desperate enough to hang out with you?” I sneer as someone else comes up the stairs behind Rage. Then I spot who it is and wince. “Mr. Burke. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you.”
Billy Burke waves away my apology. “If I’d known you were here, I wouldn’t have disturbed you. But we were passing and I remembered you telling me about this place. I was keen to see the paintings. We can leave if you’d prefer to be alone.”
“No, that’s OK, come in. I’ll give you the grand tour.”
Burke used to be my biology teacher. He was the best we had in our school, one of the few teachers I respected. He also saw the real me long before I did. He told me I was heading down the same racist path as my dad, warned me that I needed to change. I ignored him. Back then I thought I knew myself better than anybody else did.
I’ve often wondered how things might have turned out if I’d listened to him. Maybe I wouldn’t have thrown poor Tyler Bayor to the zombies. Maybe I’d have survived the zombie apocalypse. Maybe I wouldn’t be spending my nights staring at the ceiling, thinking about the blood I have on my hands, wishing I was truly dead.
Burke hooked up with Dr. Oystein after London fell and worked as a spy in the underground complex where I was being held when I recovered my senses. That’s where we met again. He convinced the soldiers to feed me brains to keep my senses intact. I’d be a mindless killer zombie if not for his help. He saw something in me worth fighting for. Even though I thought I was worthless, he didn’t agree, and he did all that he could to save me and steer me right.
In an ideal world, if we were able to choose our parents, I’d pick Billy Burke for my father without a second’s hesitation. Not that I’ll ever tell him that, or even hint at it. I don’t want him thinking I’m a soppy bugger.
I show Burke round the gallery. He’s fascinated by the paintings, though he finds some of them hard to look at—the living are far more sensitive about these things than the undead. Rage is less impressed and keeps yawning behind Burke’s back, trying to wind me up. I treat him with the contempt he deserves and don’t even reward him with another flash of my finger.
“There are so many,” Burke murmurs after a while, shaking his head at the piles of paintings resting against the walls. “He must have painted like a machine.”
“Yeah,” I nod. “It was his entire life. He knew his time would probably be cut short, so he crammed in as much as he could.”
“Have you looked at them all?” Burke asks.
“Most of them, though there are still a few buried away in places that I haven’t got to yet.”
“And did he arrange the paintings on the walls or have you hung them?”
I fight a proud smile. “He hung a lot of them, but I’ve been switching them and alternating the display.”
“Are you looking . . .
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