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

here?’ I snap.
    ‘Painting.’ He nods at the easel and beams proudly, forgetting for a moment that he should be trembling with fear. ‘I’m an artist.’
    As I stare at him, lost for words, he mistakes my gaze for one of hunger and loses his confidence as quickly as he found it. With a gulp, his arms slump by his sides and he says in a low, miserable voice, ‘Please don’t eat me.’

ELEVEN
    I circle the artist warily as he stands shivering and wincing. He’s not very old, maybe early thirties. Medium height, a bit on the thin side, with a long face and dark circles round his eyes. He’s wearing yellow trousers, a pink shirt and a tweed jacket. His clothes are dirty, ruined with paint, but look like they came from a top-notch shop. He has long, untidy brown hair, but is freshly shaven, not even a hint of stubble. He stinks of strong aftershave, like he bathes in the stuff.
    I squint at the canvas on which he was working. It depicts the zombie hanging from the rope. The feet look too big, out of proportion to the rest of the body, but I suspect that’s deliberate.
    ‘Did you stick him up there?’ I growl.
    Timothy laughs nervously. ‘Hardly. I found him here a few days ago and I’ve been coming back to paint him at different times of the day, to take advantage of the changing light.’
    ‘He’s suffering. Zombies can’t endure the sun. He’s burnt and going blind. You never thought about letting him down?’
    Timothy blinks and scratches his head. ‘To be honest, no, I didn’t. It’s not that I derive any pleasure from his pain – I feel sorry for these poor creatures – but if I’d set him free, he would have come after me and either gouged out my brain or turned me into a monster like him.’
    I have to acknowledge that he’s got a point.
    ‘I’ll let you off this time,’ I sniff.
    ‘If it’s not impudent of me,’ Timothy murmurs, eyes round and filled with curiosity, ‘what on earth are you? I thought you were one of the undead when I first saw you, but then you spoke.’
    ‘I’m a revitalised,’ I tell him. ‘A zombie who regained its thoughts.’
    ‘That’s possible?’ he gasps.
    ‘In some cases, yeah.’
    ‘Does that mean there’s a cure for the rest of them?’
    I shrug. ‘I don’t think so.’
    Although, now that I consider it, maybe it does. Perhaps a serum could be fashioned from my blood, one that could restore thought to all of the living dead. If I get rescued on Wednesday, I’ll suggest that to the soldiers. I don’t mind being a guinea pig, not if I can help bring peace to the world. Hell, maybe I’ll end up being hailed as a hero. B Smith — saviour of mankind!
    ‘Enough about me,’ I grunt. ‘What the hell is an artist doing in the middle of the road in a city overrun by zombies?’
    ‘Capturing the apocalypse for the sake of posterity,’ he beams. ‘I’ve been doing this every day since London fell. Well, not for the first couple of weeks – it was too dangerous to venture out – but I’ve not missed a day since.’
    ‘And you haven’t been attacked in all that time?’ I ask sceptically.
    ‘Of course I have,’ he chuckles. ‘I’ve had to race for my life more times than I can count. There are tricks I’ve learnt to employ which help ward off interest – I don’t come out if it’s cloudy, I douse myself in strong cologne to mask my scent, I make as little noise as possible – but I get spotted and chased two or three times a day on average.’
    I frown. ‘How come you haven’t been caught yet?’
    ‘A healthy mix of skill and luck,’ he says, then pauses. ‘Do you have a name?’
    ‘Of course. I’m B Smith.’
    ‘And you’re not going to eat me, are you, B?’
    ‘Nah. You don’t look that tasty,’ I laugh.
    ‘You won’t snap suddenly, lose your mind and turn on me?’ he presses.
    ‘No.’
    ‘You’re a good zombie?’
    I smile. ‘I probably wouldn’t go that far. But I’m not a killer.’
    Timothy mulls that over, then