Zom-B City by Darren Shan Read Free Book Online Page A

than I’d kill a living person. I want them to slink forward, give me a closer once-over, learn to trust me. But no such luck. They’ve gone into hiding and I doubt they’ll come here again any time soon.
    Eventually I take a road leading west. There are dead zombies hanging from the street lamps, rotting in the sun. Each has been shot through the head. Many have been disembowelled or cut up with knives. Flies buzz around the stinking corpses. I pass them nervously, wondering if this was the work of hunters like Barnes and his posse.
    I don’t like the way that the corpses have been strung up. As vicious as the living dead are, they’re not consciously evil, just slaves to their unnatural desires. I understand the need to kill the undead, but torturing and humiliating them serves no purpose. It’s not like other zombies are going to look at them and have a change of heart. Being a zombie isn’t a career choice. The reviveds don’t have any control over what they do.
    I turn left, then right on to Bethnal Green Road. One of Mum’s best friends, Mary Byrne, lived around here. Her oldest son, Matt, was my age, and his brother Joe was just a bit younger. We used to play together when our mums hung out.
    More zombies are strung up along the road ahead of me, but I’m not paying attention to them, trying to remember exactly where Mary lived. So it’s a real shock, as I’m walking along, when one of the corpses kicks out at my head and makes a choked noise.
    ‘Bloody hell!’ I yell, falling over and scrabbling away.
    The zombie goes on kicking and mewling, and I realise I have nothing to fear. I get to my feet and study the writhing figure. It’s a man. He’s been stripped bare. His hands are tied behind his back and a noose around his neck connects to the lamp overhead. But the people who strung up the zombies left this one alive, either for sport or because they were scared off before they could finish the job.
    The man’s flesh is a nasty red colour, where he’s been burnt by the sun. His eyes are sickly white orbs. He snarls angrily and kicks out furiously at the world. No telling how long he’s been up there, but by the state of his eyes, I’d say it’s been a good while.
    I should press on but I can’t. This guy means nothing to me but I can’t leave him like this. I wouldn’t do this to anyone, even a savage killer, as he doubtless would become if given his freedom and a human target.
    ‘Hold on, sunshine,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll find a ladder and come free you.’
    The zombie screeches hoarsely, limited by the rope around his throat.
    ‘Be patient,’ I snap. ‘I won’t be long. Just give me a few minutes to go search for . . .’
    I come to a stunned halt. I was turning to look for a hardware store when I spotted something, just past the corner where I cut on to this stretch. I do a double take, but when I look again it’s still there.
    An artist’s easel has been set in the middle of the road, straddling a white line. A medium-sized canvas rests on it. And just behind the easel stands a man, holding a painter’s palette, gawping at me as if I’d come from another planet.
    ‘Who the bloody hell are you?’ I roar, striding towards him.
    The man yelps and drops the palette. He turns and runs. I give immediate chase. He’s faster than me, but I throw myself through the air, taking long jumps, and a few seconds later I overtake him and draw to a halt, blocking his way. The man screams and turns to run back the way he’s come.
    ‘Don’t try it!’ I shout. ‘I don’t need to breathe, so I can chase you all day and never drop my pace.’
    The man shudders, glances around desperately for a place to hide or something to defend himself with. Finding nothing, he resigns himself, straightens and turns to face me. He brushes dried flecks of paint from the sleeves of his coat and tries a shaky smile.

    ‘My name is Timothy Jackson,’ he squeaks, as posh as you like.
    ‘What are you doing