Zombie Business

Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Except I won't truly die, will I? I can lie there, starve and wait for my senses to crumble, but that's not the same thing. I'll carry on as a mindless zombie in that case and maybe kill again one day.

I want out. I need to get out. If I could rely on the mutants and babies to kill me, I'd throw myself into the battle at County Hall and perish with my friends and allies, but there's a good chance that they'd take me captive and deliver me to their master instead, and who knows where things would go from there. No, if I want this job done properly, I have to do it myself. I'll find a drill or a chainsaw and bore into my knife will suffice. skull. Hell, even a good, sharp

Having made up my mind, all that remains is to choose my spot. Most people aren't that fortunate when it's their time to pass on from this realm. They simply drop wherever fate decrees. But, whether I deserve it or not, I have a choice. I can do it some where random or I can pick a place that means something to me.

I think about it as I shuffle along. Both options have their appeal. A random location would allow me to do it so her rather than later, and I think it would be fitting if I died in a lonely, unmarked place. After all, isn't that where all failures should wind up?

But at the same time, if there is a higher power, one that's been stacking the deck of cards against me, I wouldn't mind sticking a couple of fingers up at it before I check out. B Leonard - rebel to the end!

I decide on my old flat in the East End. I've had several bases since then, but that's the spot I always think of as home. I didn't realise it at the time, but that's where I was at my happiest. I had plenty of lousy experiences there too, when Dad terrorised Mum and me, but that's where I was loved (and bul lied), where I was safe (most of the time), where I was free to grow and learn and live (under the thumb of an outright racist).

Yeah, the flat will be a good finishing point. A neat way to draw a line under my existence. Pick up a sharp tool along the way. Drag myself up the stairs. Crawl into my old room. Lie on my bed, stare at the ceiling, go to work on my head, churn and let it all end. Rot away slowly until I'm only dust, up my brain a dwindling memory in the dusty database of the universe.

Perversely, I cheer up once I've made my decision. I even hum as I plod along. 'Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it's off to die I go.'

I have a goal now, and it's not the sort of epic goal that I've been chasing since I linked up with Dr Quinn. No more saving the world for this undead girl. All I have to worry about is making it home and signing off. That's the sort of challenge I was born to deal with.

Watch out, afterlife - here I come!

The walk east is taking an age. It's a good job I'm not in a hurry. I doubt any tourist ever went along this slowly in the past, and that's bearing in mind that sightseers in London weren't known for their speed they used to drive us locals mad if we got stuck behind a pack of them on a busy street.

I'm enjoying the river views. I find the Thames oddly peaceful and calming. I don't normally pay much attention to it, but it demands my focus today on the long, laborious march home. Maybe it's because the serene, constantly flowing water reminds me of the journey my soul is soon to embark on, and I want to believe that my spirit will drift along effort lessly like this when it's set free from my shambolic form. A fool's dream, probably, but a nice image to dwell on while I'm crawling ever eastwards in a fog of nightmarish pain.

I stop when I reach the Millennium Bridge, and on an impulse decide to cross the river to the South Bank. I've come a long way from Westminster, so I no longer have to worry about running into mutants, and it's a more interesting walk on the south side.

I drag myself across the bridge and step off in the shadow of the towering Tate Modern. If I was in better shape, I might pop in to check out the exhibits, but this most certainly isn't a day to be vis iting art galleries.

I trudge past the Globe, where I spot a zombie in Shakespearean garb, probably an actor from back in the day, standing just inside the entrance. He's making odd, jerky movements with his head and arms, and I realise after a few confused moments that he's trying to act out a scene from a dimly remembered play. As drained as I am, I stop and clap slowly. The actor's face lights up with the memory of applause-filled times, and he awkwardly bows towards me. That's my good deed for the day taken care of.

I detour down a dark, cobbled street, past an old prison complex that would have been a perfect jail for the likes of Dan-Dan and my other foes. I lose sight of the river for a while, before linking up with the path again just past London Bridge.

As I make my slow, shuffling way along the river bank, I think about where I can pick up a decent power tool. I'd like to clock out in style. A really good, strong drill that will arrow clean through my skull, leaving only the smallest, most discreet of holes behind when I yank it out and drop it while I thrash around and die.