Zom-B City by Darren Shan Read Free Book Online

Australian hat. That should last me years if I don’t lose it. Well, would last me years if I lived that long, but I’ve probably only got about a year and a half, max. Which means this might well prove to be a lifelong hat.
    The streets are quiet. I spot zombies in the shade of shops and houses, or resting in abandoned cars or buses. They stare at me hungrily as I amble past. I always make sure I turn so that they can see the hole in my chest. If it wasn’t so bright, they’d probably clamber out to make sure I wasn’t trying to fool them, but they’re reluctant to brave the glare of the day. They haven’t thought of wearing sunglasses. They ain’t bright sparks like me.
    I’m excited to be on the move, to have a goal, even if it’s one that could result in my execution. I never did much when I was alive, just hung out with my mates (most or all of them are probably dead now, but I try not to brood about that) or festered in my room. It wasn’t a fascinating life by any standards. But it beat the hell out of being held prisoner underground, and the monotony of the last few weeks. I was going stir-crazy in that flat, but I only realise how bad things were now that I’ve left. You know you’ve been seriously climbing the walls if the thought of heading off on a suicide mission makes you feel happy!
    I lose my way a couple of times, but don’t bother checking the A to Z . It’s a nice day, I’m enjoying the stroll, no zombies or hunters are hassling me, so what’s the rush?
    I come to a railway station. Lots of eerie-looking train carriages, windows smashed in many, bloodstains splashed across the metal and glass in more places than I can count. On one carriage I spot a large red z with an arrow underneath, pointing west. It looks like it was freshly sprayed — there’s even a smell of paint in the air, or is that my imagination?
    I swing a right past the station and follow the road round until I can cut through to Victoria Park. Mum used to bring me for walks up here at the weekend when I was younger. Dad came with us sometimes, but he’d always work himself up into a mood, muttering about all the foreigners on the loose.
    He wouldn’t mind it now. There’s not a soul to be seen, black, brown or any other colour. Lots of corpses and bones but that’s all. I’ve got the entire park to myself.
    Well . . . not quite. As I pad past the tennis courts and come to a few small ponds, I spot three skinny dogs lapping water from a pool.
    I perk up when I clock the dogs and hurry towards them, calling out, ‘Hey! Doggies! Here!’ I make clicking sounds with my tongue.
    The dogs react instantly, but not in the way I’d like. Without even looking at me, they take off, yapping fearfully. I race after them, shouting for them to come back, but they’re faster than me and disappear from sight moments later. I come to a stop and swear, then kick the ground with anger.
    A little later, walking through the park, I regret swearing. I can’t blame the dogs for running. These past months must have been hellish for any animal trapped here. If zombies eat an animal’s brain as readily as a human’s, they’ll have gone for every pet in the city. To survive, you’d have to learn to be sneaky, to only come out in the daytime, to avoid all contact with the two-legged creatures which were once so nice to you. I think even Dr Dolittle would have trouble getting animals to trust him these days.
    I spend an hour or more in the park. My skin’s itching from the sun, even protected by my heavy layers of clothes, but I press on, determined not to let that spoil the day for me. A pity there’s nobody selling ice cream. I could murder a 99, even though I’d have to spit out almost every mouthful because I can’t digest solids any more.
    I keep hoping the dogs will show again, that they’ll realise I mean them no harm, that I only crave their friendship, not their brains — as hungry as I get, I wouldn’t kill a dog, any more