Free ZOM-B Baby by Darren Shan

terribly dark circles in his long, thin face.
    ‘You don’t want to shake hands with me,’ I tut. ‘I’m not safe.’
    He comes to an immediate stop. ‘Oh, that’s right. I was so excited to see you, I forgot. Silly me.’ He lowers his hand and chuckles. ‘As you can probably tell, I haven’t spoken to anyone since we last met. I’m desperate for company. The painting keeps me going, but there’s nothing like a good old bit of gossip to really stir the senses.’
    Timothy retrieves his easel and checks to make sure it hasn’t been broken.
    ‘I had hoped to see you sooner than this,’ he says, trying to phrase it lightly. ‘I thought you might come and visit me. When you didn’t, I assumed you had either been welcomed with open arms by the soldiers you went off in pursuit of, or had been mown down by them.’
    ‘The latter,’ I grimace. ‘They opened fire when they realised I was undead, even shot a missile at me from a helicopter.’
    ‘But you survived and escaped?’ Timothy claps enthusiastically. ‘Top-drawer! Where have you beensince then? Why didn’t you come back? I’ve painted some marvellous images. I’d love to share them with you.’
    ‘I’ve been busy,’ I mutter. ‘Things took a strange turn. Have you been over to County Hall since you started painting?’
    ‘A few times,’ he nods. ‘I sketched it from the north bank of the river.’
    ‘You should wander south. You’d find a whole lot of interesting stuff to paint.’
    ‘That sounds intriguing,’ he purrs. ‘I look forward to hearing all about it. You are staying, aren’t you? For a while at least?’
    ‘If I’m welcome, yeah.’
    ‘Of course you’re welcome,’ Timothy booms, bouncing to the door and getting out his key. ‘And you aren’t the only one with news to share. I’ve played host to a most unique visitor since our paths last crossed. I’ll have to introduce you, see what your opinion is, if you can make any more sense of it than I have.’
    I squint at him. ‘I thought you said you hadn’t been talking to anyone since I left you.’
    ‘I haven’t,’ he smirks. ‘This guest isn’t much of a one for talking. But I think you’ll be fascinated nevertheless. And who knows, maybe you’ll manage to draw a response of some sort. I believe you might have more in common with the strange little dear than I have.’
    He laughs at my confused expression, then throws open the door and ushers me inside, politely asking me to wipe my feet on the way.

FOURTEEN
    Timothy Jackson is an artist who survived the zombie attacks. Rather than lie low afterwards or flee the city as so many others did, he decided to make paintings of the downfall of London. Like Dr Oystein, he thinks he has been hand-picked by God, except in his case the Almighty only wants him to record images of the mayhem, not put a stop to it.
    Once Timothy has stowed his equipment, he leads me upstairs, through a room of mostly blank canvases, to one crowded with finished works. It’s evenmore jam-packed than it was the last time I was here. There’s barely space to move.
    ‘You’ve been busy,’ I note.
    ‘Yes,’ he says with passion. ‘I feel like I’ve really hit my stride these last few weeks. I’m getting faster, without having to compromise my style. Here, look at this.’
    He shows me a large painting of a mound of bodies stacked in a heap, St Paul’s Cathedral rising behind them in the distance. Many of the faces are vague blobs and splashes of paint, but he’s paid close attention to detail on a few of them, and also to the cathedral.
    ‘Two days to complete,’ he says proudly. ‘That would have been at least a week’s work just a couple of months ago, and I doubt I could have captured the expressions as clearly as I did. I’m improving all the time. Another year and who knows what I might be capable of.’
    ‘How did the bodies end up in a pile like that?’ I ask, staring at the morbid painting. ‘Did you gather them