extra incentive he needed to venture outside. Thank God he lived in rainy old England; otherwise he might have been a prisoner in his own home for much longer stretches of time.
Once again he omitted to take his prophylactic medication, unbothered by the threat of withdrawal symptoms. He dressed hurriedly and slipped the gun into his holdall. He didn’t really feel like blowing the brains out of another zombie just yet, but he wouldn’t balk at the task if it came to it.
After the tiresome rigmarole of the barricades he made his way towards the Lighthouse. The downpour was so intense it was a constant struggle to keep moving, and by the time he reached his destination he was tired and soaked through – half sweat and half rainwater, despite the protection of his raincoat. The cold, damp and fatigue couldn’t stop him from feeling glad to be there, and he looked around the place fondly as he hastened to dry himself. He didn’t bother checking the house for intruders; somehow the place felt sacred, inviolable.
In the kitchen he sorted food into his holdall. There was still a mountain of it to get through, and each new item placed into the holdall widened the diversity of potential meals he could conjure up, piquing within him the first real desire for food he’d felt for days.
In the first-floor drawing room David flipped through the records and chose one at random by an act called the Pet Shop Boys, the cover of which featured a picture of two men, one of them yawning, against a white background. The first song was an incredible orchestral number called It Couldn’t Happen Here , sung by a male vocalist with a starkly distinctive voice. He sat on a chaise long and listened intently as the mournful, prophetic lyrics washed over him. The second track was a barnstorming extravaganza called It’s a Sin , which ended, fittingly enough, with the singer reciting part of the Confiteor – mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. As before, the music felt like a gift from a bygone age.
The music continued playing as he explored the third floor, the topmost part of the house and obviously the least used by whoever had lived here. There was a small single bedroom, while most of the other rooms were almost completely empty, occupied only by boxes piled here and there. It was a criminal waste of space, and yet another testament to the former owners’ wealth.
By the time he re-entered the drawing room the record had stopped playing. As he moved to turn it over something out the window caught his eye. A zombie child in a shiny blue boys’ parka, the fur-lined hood down despite the rain, was walking along the pavement on the opposite side of the street, moving sluggishly, drawing level with the house. It was probably the same kid he’d seen on the motorway flyover, he thought, uninterested.
Then the zombie child turned its head in his direction and he did a double-take. Something was wrong. Very wrong. Or, rather, right. Very right. Although pale, it didn’t have the ghostly all-over pallor of a zombie, nor did it have the same shuffling gait when he thought about it. Plus it was outside in heavy rain. And the eyes! Even at this distance, the customary colours of a zombie’s eyes should have been detectable. Instead, there appeared to be distinct whites and dark pupils – the way they should be. Unless it was a trick of the light, the boy’s eyes looked to be normal.
It wasn’t a zombie .
For a moment he didn’t react, refusing to believe the evidence of his own eyes.
It wasn’t a zombie. It was a boy. A normal boy.
Recovering himself, he pounded on the window pane with a clenched fist and went to shout, only for a feeble croak to come rasping from his throat. He’d lived such a wordless existence for the past six months he had to struggle to make his vocal cords work above a whisper; not to mention the fact that his heart had leapt into his mouth.
“Hey! Heyyyyy! Up here! ”
The boy heard him and froze,
Once again he omitted to take his prophylactic medication, unbothered by the threat of withdrawal symptoms. He dressed hurriedly and slipped the gun into his holdall. He didn’t really feel like blowing the brains out of another zombie just yet, but he wouldn’t balk at the task if it came to it.
After the tiresome rigmarole of the barricades he made his way towards the Lighthouse. The downpour was so intense it was a constant struggle to keep moving, and by the time he reached his destination he was tired and soaked through – half sweat and half rainwater, despite the protection of his raincoat. The cold, damp and fatigue couldn’t stop him from feeling glad to be there, and he looked around the place fondly as he hastened to dry himself. He didn’t bother checking the house for intruders; somehow the place felt sacred, inviolable.
In the kitchen he sorted food into his holdall. There was still a mountain of it to get through, and each new item placed into the holdall widened the diversity of potential meals he could conjure up, piquing within him the first real desire for food he’d felt for days.
In the first-floor drawing room David flipped through the records and chose one at random by an act called the Pet Shop Boys, the cover of which featured a picture of two men, one of them yawning, against a white background. The first song was an incredible orchestral number called It Couldn’t Happen Here , sung by a male vocalist with a starkly distinctive voice. He sat on a chaise long and listened intently as the mournful, prophetic lyrics washed over him. The second track was a barnstorming extravaganza called It’s a Sin , which ended, fittingly enough, with the singer reciting part of the Confiteor – mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. As before, the music felt like a gift from a bygone age.
The music continued playing as he explored the third floor, the topmost part of the house and obviously the least used by whoever had lived here. There was a small single bedroom, while most of the other rooms were almost completely empty, occupied only by boxes piled here and there. It was a criminal waste of space, and yet another testament to the former owners’ wealth.
By the time he re-entered the drawing room the record had stopped playing. As he moved to turn it over something out the window caught his eye. A zombie child in a shiny blue boys’ parka, the fur-lined hood down despite the rain, was walking along the pavement on the opposite side of the street, moving sluggishly, drawing level with the house. It was probably the same kid he’d seen on the motorway flyover, he thought, uninterested.
Then the zombie child turned its head in his direction and he did a double-take. Something was wrong. Very wrong. Or, rather, right. Very right. Although pale, it didn’t have the ghostly all-over pallor of a zombie, nor did it have the same shuffling gait when he thought about it. Plus it was outside in heavy rain. And the eyes! Even at this distance, the customary colours of a zombie’s eyes should have been detectable. Instead, there appeared to be distinct whites and dark pupils – the way they should be. Unless it was a trick of the light, the boy’s eyes looked to be normal.
It wasn’t a zombie .
For a moment he didn’t react, refusing to believe the evidence of his own eyes.
It wasn’t a zombie. It was a boy. A normal boy.
Recovering himself, he pounded on the window pane with a clenched fist and went to shout, only for a feeble croak to come rasping from his throat. He’d lived such a wordless existence for the past six months he had to struggle to make his vocal cords work above a whisper; not to mention the fact that his heart had leapt into his mouth.
“Hey! Heyyyyy! Up here! ”
The boy heard him and froze,
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