ZOM-B 11 Read Free

and ways out of here.
    Assessing that information, I try to come to a decision — should I head straight for the surface or stick to the shadows for a while?
    The nearest exit is through Whitechapel Station. It wouldn’t take me long to reach it, even in my current shuffling state. I could climb up through the station and lose myself on the
streets.
    Whitechapel would be my first preference, except I know from Mr Dowling’s memories that the station is always carefully guarded by his forces, along with the one at Aldgate East. The
guards might have been pulled from their posts to attend the wedding, but I can’t count on that. It’s unlikely that the mutants would have left themselves completely open to a sneak
attack.
    The alternative is to make use of the various tunnels and link up with the Tube line further west, pop up out of a random station. In its favour — the mutants can’t patrol every
stretch of tunnel, and they won’t know which area of the city to focus their search on once they discover I’m missing. Against — I’ll have to spend a lot of time in darkness, meaning I might not see them coming if they happen to chance upon me, and it
will be hard, probably impossible, to outrun them if they stumble across my trail before I make it to the streets.
    I spend a couple of minutes weighing up the pros and cons, figuring it’s time worth investing. In the end I decide I’d be safer in the dark. I don’t like it down here, but just
as it would be hard for me to see any hunters coming, it would be equally difficult for them to spot me going.
    Having made up my mind, I first head in the direction of Whitechapel. I’m aware that I’ve left a trail of blood, and I’m hoping to throw off my trackers by continuing east
for a spell, to make them think that I’m aiming for the easiest way out. I’m probably being naive – chances are they have mutants who’ve been trained to detect the subtlest
of scents – but I’ve nothing to lose by trying.
    After several minutes, I stop in the glow of a light and start ripping the remains of the lower lengths of my wedding dress into strips. It was such a lovely dress, and I hate having to wreck it, but it was already in tatters after the attack by the babies. The veil is missing, huge holes have
been torn or bitten out of the material, its colour is now more crimson than white in most places.
    I ball up some of the strips and press them deep into my flesh where I’m bleeding worst, plugging the gashes, stemming the flow as best I can. I wince as the material bonds with my flesh,
sticking to it like an extra layer. As the balls absorb my blood and swell within me like flowers in bloom, I loop more of the makeshift bandages round my feet and ankles so that they’ll
hopefully soak up the drops trickling down my legs.
    I study myself when I’m done. Far from perfect – I’d never have made a nurse – but it will have to do. The most important thing is that the vial has remained steady
within its nesting place. My movements haven’t shaken it loose by even a fraction. That’s good to know going forward, means I don’t have to stop to check on it too often.
    I listen intently for a minute, trying to detect whether the hunters are already on my trail. I hear shuffling sounds close by and stiffen, thinking my number is up. But then I spot a couple of
rats gnawing on an old bone and I relax. I suppose I should be grateful that the rodents don’t attack me — I’d make a tasty snack for a big enough group
of them. If I was human, they’d probably take me down, wounded and bleeding as I am, but zombie blood must not appeal to them.
    When I’m sure that there are no mutants lurking nearby, waiting to spring upon me the second I turn my back, I take a deep breath – pointless since I don’t have any lungs, but
it’s a force of habit – swing a left and arc back upon myself, heading west, deeper into the twisting network of tunnels.

THREE
    After a