Zom-B Read Free

attack?”
    “Don’t be daft,” I laugh.
    “But if they struck there, they could strike here. We’re not that far from Ireland.” She looks like she’s about to cry. “They come out at night, the reporters all say so. If they attack London and catch you on the street…”
    “Dad?” I look to him for support.
    “I dunno…” he mutters, and for the first time I see that he’s not so sure that this is the work of sneaky liberals.
    “Don’t tell me you’re gonna start too,” I groan.
    Dad chews the inside of his cheek, the way he does when he’s thinking hard.
    “Put your foot down, Todd,” Mum says. “It’s dangerous out there. You can’t–”
    “I can do whatever the bloody hell I want!” Dad shouts. “Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do.”
    “I’m not,” Mum squeaks. “I was only–”
    “Shut it,” Dad says quietly and Mum zips up immediately. She knows that tone. We both do. I gulp as Dad sits forward, putting down the can of beer. He cracks his fingers, eyeballing Mum. She’s trembling. She’s not the sharpest tool in the box. She missed the earlier warning signs, his expression, the clip to his words. But now she’s up to speed. Dad’s in a foul mood. There could be some thuggery in the cards tonight.
    I start to edge towards Mum, to do my best to protect her. I hate it when Dad hits me. But I hate it even more when he hits her. Mum’s soft. I’m more like Dad, a tough little nut. I’ll distract him if I can, draw his attention away from Mum. If I’m lucky he’ll only slap me. If not, and he starts punching and kicking, I’ll curl up into a ball and take it. Won’t be the first time. Won’t be the last. Better he does it to me than Mum.
    “B!” Dad barks, making me jump.
    “Yeah?” I croak, trying not to shake.
    He glares at me—then snorts, picks up the can of beer and settles back again. “Go do whatever the hell you feel like.”
    “Sure thing, boss,” I smile and tip him a stupid salute.
    Dad smirks. “You’re an idiot,” he says.
    “I know where I get it from,” I chuck back at him, feeling safe enough to wind him up a bit. I can do that to Dad when he’s in the right mood. He’s a great laugh when he wants to be.
    “Oi!” he roars and throws a cushion at me.
    I laugh and duck out, knowing Mum will be fine now, delighted at this unexpected swing, feeling on top of the world. There’s nothing sweeter than a narrow escape. I don’t know why Dad laid off at the last moment, and I don’t try to figure it out. I gave up trying to read his mind years ago.
    The last thing I see is Mum getting up to retrieve the cushion. Dad doesn’t like it if she leaves stuff lying around. Doesn’t matter if he left it there. Cleaning up is her job.

TWO
    Out of the flat, down three flights of stairs, taking the steps two at a time, four on the last set. I slap the wall on my right as I fly past. Someone spray painted a giant arse on it months ago and I always slap it for good luck when I pass. Some of the neighbors have tried scrubbing it off but it’s hanging in there, faded but defiant. I love graffiti. If I could paint, I’d be out covering the walls of London every night.
    I land like a cat, cool in my new, totally black sneakers. There was a bit of red running through them when they first came out of their box, and the brand name shone brightly, but I carefully went over everything with a heavy-duty Sharpie. B Smith is nobody’s advertising pawn!
    It’s not yet six, plenty of daylight left. Idon’t know what Mum was panicking about. Even if zombies were real, and even if they did attack here, they wouldn’t show their faces for another hour, not if the news teams have got it right.
    I check myself out in shop windows. Plain black T-shirt and jeans, no tags to show what make they are, threadbare in places, but worn in naturally by me, none of your bloody designer wear and tear.
    I’m almost past Black Spot when I stop and backtrack. Vinyl’s in there