Read Zom-B City for Free Online Page B

London while I’ve been listening, one in the north, one in the west. Both pick-up points were out of my way, so I stayed put and let them pass. But it’s only a matter of time before they come to the East End or the City, and I’m determined to go along when a rescue is announced.
    There have been no reports of revitaliseds on any of the radio programmes. The world doesn’t seem to be aware of the existence of zombies like me. I’m not sure how the soldiers will react when I turn up, but I’ve got to try to tell them about the possible threat which revitaliseds pose.
    I’ve been thinking about Rage a lot, the way he killed Dr Cerveris, his contempt for the living. If he survived and made it out of the complex, maybe he looks upon the zombies as his allies. It might amuse him to betray humanity. Perhaps there are others like him who’ve been mistreated by the living, wanting to get revenge and see them brought low.
    I don’t know if the soldiers will give me a chance to explain, if they’ll offer me shelter in return for my help or shoot me the instant they set eyes on me. I suspect it might be the latter. But I’ve got to at least try to help, because I was one of the living once, and if I don’t cling to that memory and honour it, all that’s left for me is the monstrous, lonely, sub-existence of the dead.

TEN
    The call finally comes late one evening. There’s going to be a mission to Central London in three days — to make it clear, the reporter says that today is Sunday and the rescue will take place sometime on Wednesday. She’s excited when she breaks the news. The other rescues in the capital have all been in the suburbs. This is the first time they’ve hit the centre. They think it might be the largest operation yet, so they’re going to be sending more helicopters and troops than normal. But she tells people not to worry, this is just the first mission of many, so if you can’t make it this time, stay low and wait for the next.
    I head off first thing in the morning. It won’t take me three days to walk to the West End, but I want to allow myself plenty of time to overcome any unexpected obstacles along the way, explore the area, find a resting place, maybe meet up with some of the survivors and convince them of my good intentions so that they can act as middlemen between me and the soldiers.
    I pause in the doorway of the flat and glance back one last time, nostalgic, remembering Mum and Dad, the bad times as well as the good. And, being honest, there were more bad days than good. Dad was always too free with his fists. Mum and I were constantly walking on eggshells, afraid we’d say the wrong thing and set him off.
    But you know what? I’d take them all back in an instant if they were offered, even the days when he beat us and drew blood and kicked us like dogs. He was a nasty sod, there’s no denying that, but he was still my dad. I love him. I miss him. I can’t help myself.
    ‘I’ll come looking for you,’ I say aloud to the memories of the two people who mattered to me most. ‘If I survive, and you’re out there, I’ll try to find you, to let you know I made it through, to help you if I can.’
    There’s no answer or sign that somewhere, somehow, they magically heard. Of course not. I’d have to be a right dozy cow to believe that they’re sitting up in a far-off compound, frowning at the ghostly echo of my voice, whispering with awe, ‘ B? ’
    ‘You’re getting soft, girl,’ I mutter, then slam the door shut and head on down the stairs, whistling dreadfully — I can’t carry a tune these days, not now that my mouth is drier than a camel’s arse.
    I wind my way through the streets, heading west. I’ve never walked this stretch of London before. We always got a bus or the Tube if we were going up the West End, or a cab on occasions when Dad was feeling flush.
    I replace my clothes and jacket as soon as I can, for full protection from the sun. I’m still wearing the