Zombie Business

Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Then, having wasted enough time on the undead woman, I work my way up through the station, squeezing by the zombies who pack the platform and tunnels. They're even crowding the escalators, sitting or standing on the steps, gazing blankly off into the distance like Sister Clare was. I wish the escalators were working - what I wouldn't give for a smooth ride up out of the depths - but they're as lifeless as the people stacked along them.

I limp onwards and upwards. Holy Moly ducks in and out between my legs as I walk, treating this as a game. I'm not looking any further ahead than the next step, not wanting to focus on how far I have to go, knowing I'd lose heart if I stopped to check. What I can't see can't freak me out.

Eventually I make it to the top, and I'm more relieved than I should be. I was beginning to think that I'd truly died, that this was hell, an endless series of steps ing. that I'd have to spend all of eternity climb

"That was easy, wasn't it?' I mutter. yes,' Holy Moly says, missing the sarcasm.

The ticket barriers are open, so at least I don't have that hassle to deal with. We push through and out of the riverbank exit, into sunlight. The light hurts my eyes, but not as much as I thought it would, and it starts to get dimmer after a few seconds, cancelling out the headache that I normally get when travelling by day.

The dimness confuses me until I recall the special contact lenses that Mr Dowling stuck in when he rebuilt my ruined body. They must feature an auto matic tinting system. I'm still not comfortable in the sunlight, but I can deal with it and see much more clearly than I could before.

"Thanks, hubby,' I whisper, and spread my arms wide, feeling like Lazarus reborn. I'm sure I'm wear ing a goofy smile but I don't care. This is glorious after the darkness of that underworld realm. Even the itching isn't as bad as it used to be, probably because of all the replacement flesh that the clown grafted on to me.

'shall i leave you here mummy?" Holy Moly asks.

That surprises me. The baby seems almost eager to be rid of me. But then I recall that I asked it to lead me safely to the city. Now that we're here, it clearly thinks that its job is done. It's not looking to aban don me it just assumes that I have no more need of it and want to be by myself. The babies are noth ing if not literal.

'Stick with me a few more minutes,' I tell it, head ing under a bridge to the right of the station. 'I want to show you share it with where I live. It's a lovely sight. Let me you. Your reward for helping me out."

silly mummy, Holy Moly beams. i don't need a reward. i love you mummy.' But the baby comes with me anyway, to humour me. I've a feeling it would go anywhere I asked it to go.

A railway line crosses the river here. There are foot bridges attached to both sides. I limp across to the one that faces Westminster. Steps lead up to the bridge, but there's also a lift. I say a little prayer that it's working and, what do you know, the gods are smiling on me for once.

'Going up,' I laugh as we ascend.

Holy Moly looks the teeniest bit scared. I don't think the baby has been in a lift before. I tickle the little one's belly to distract it and it laughs with utter delight.

The lift stops and we shuffle out. I pick up Holy Moly and stagger to the rails, to point towards the Houses of Parliament, then across the river to the gleaming London Eye, County Hall lying just behind it.

"There,' I tell Holy Moly. "That's where Mummy and her friends live. Isn't it the most wonderful place you've ever ...'

My words tail off. It's a sunny day in London. The rays pick out the Eye and the building to its rear. The pair of landmarks shine majestically, as if the daylight was created to highlight their glory.

But, with the help of my contact lenses, I can see other things just as clearly. -mutants, zombies and scores of babies, each of the infants an exact replica of Holy Moly, only without a hole in its head.

Mr Dowling's troops, gathered in their grisly might, have formed a ring around County Hall and are in the process of overrunning the complex. As I watch with stunned horror, they dash in and out of the entrances, smashing windows, killing anyone they find.

The clown and his lethal posse have launched an attack on County Hall, the home of Dr Oystein and his Angels. And, by the look of things, the battle has already been decided. The good guys have lost. The bad guys have won.

I think of the vial inside my stomach. I stare at the sickening scenes across the river. I lower my head and make a weak keening noise, not cursing this twist of fate, not mourning those I've probably lost, just thinking numbly - who the hell can I turn to now?