Zom-B City Read Free

beasts in this sorry state. They’d be better off properly dead, no doubt about it.
    Lots of zombies stop me as I draw close. They can tell I’m not exactly the same as them, maybe by my scent or the way I move. In almost every case, their face lights up with excitement, then creases with doubt, then returns to blankness once they realise I’m dead like they are.
    The reviveds become a nuisance after a while. If I try to push on without stopping to be examined, they get angry and snap at me. I’m pretty sure I could take any one of them in a fight – it shouldn’t be too difficult to outwit a brain-dead zombie – but I don’t want to spend the whole night scrapping. It’s easier to stand still, let them give me the once-over, then move on when they lose interest.
    To clarify my situation, I rip a hole in my T-shirt to expose the left half of my chest. That speeds things up a bit, but some still stop me to make absolutely sure I’m not one of the living. With all the interruptions, I make little headway. It’s been about a couple of hours since I left the car, but I haven’t gone far.
    I spot a newsagent’s and let myself in. It’s dusty. Shelves have been knocked down, broken bottles litter the floor, the glass in a drinks cabinet has been shattered. There are a few newspapers on the counter, all dated the day of the zombie attacks, the world’s last normal day. The cash register is open, notes lying undisturbed inside it. I guess money doesn’t matter much any more.
    The electricity is off but I can see fairly clearly. My eyes work well in the dark, better than they do in strong light.
    I find a large A to Z and take it outside. I look for a street sign, then do a quick check in the book. I’m in the East End. I don’t know this area well, but I’m not far from more familiar territory. It’s probably pointless, but with nowhere else to head for, I figure I might as well go home. I doubt I’ll find anyone there, but at least I’ll be in more comforting surroundings.
    I replace the A to Z with a smaller version and stick it in the back of my jeans. Then I set off in a northwest direction, picking my way through the streets, stopping whenever I’m challenged by one of the roaming dead.
    I endure the stop-start process for another hour before I get sick of it. It’ll take forever if I keep going like this. There has to be a better way and I think I know what it is. I could try a motorbike or car, of course, but I never learnt to drive, and anyway, the roads are cluttered with crashed vehicles.
    I find a street packed with shops and go on a scouting mission. First I slip into a chemist’s and hunt for eye drops. My eyes don’t produce tears now, so I need to keep moistening them or they’ll dry out and my vision will worsen. Once I’ve doused them, I load a bag with several bottles and look around, wondering if I need anything else. I think about bandaging over the hole in my chest, but it’s not a medical necessity – apart from the green moss, I haven’t seen any signs of infection – and besides, the open hole makes it easier for the walking dead to identify me as one of their own.
    I move on and spot a hardware store. I spend a bit longer in this shop, testing a variety of tools, looking for weapons in case I have to fight at any point. The zombies haven’t bothered me so far, but I can’t rely on them leaving me alone forever. I know from the tests underground that they’ll attack revitaliseds if they feel threatened. I don’t plan on antagonising anyone, but sometimes things can just kick off. Better to be safe than sorry.
    I settle on a hammer, a couple of screwdrivers and a chisel. Light, easy to carry and use, effective. I spend a long time among the drills, playing around with them, wincing at the shriek they make – my sense of hearing is much better than it was when I was alive – but loving their sheer ferocity. It would be cool to become a drill-packing zombie, but the bulky