Free ZOM-B Baby by Darren Shan Page A

together?’

    ‘Certainly not,’ Timothy huffs. ‘I paint only what I find. I never stage a scene. That would be cheating.’
    ‘Then how …?’ I ask again.
    ‘They were zombies,’ Timothy says softly. ‘They’d been shot, I assume by soldiers or hunters. If by soldiers, I imagine they stacked the bodies that way in order to come back and incinerate them at some point in the future. If by hunters, I suppose they did it so that they could pose for photos in front of their kills.’
    ‘Sometimes I think that your kind are worse than mine,’ I growl, recalling my own brush with the American hunter, Barnes, and his posse. ‘I’ve no problem with survivors killing zombies because of the threat we pose, but doing it for sport is sick.’
    ‘I agree,’ Timothy says. ‘Humans are far more dangerous than the undead. I keep my head down when I hear gunfire. I know where I stand with zombies, but I never know what to expect from the living.’
    Timothy heads for the larder, washing his hands along the way, and prepares a simple meal forhimself, cold beans on bread, some tinned carrots and a glass of red wine to wash it all down.
    ‘Why don’t you heat the food?’ I ask.
    ‘Zombies might pick up the smell,’ he explains. ‘I avoid cooking when I can. On those days when I simply
must
have a hot meal, I set up a barbecue in a park or public square and cook a big lunch. I tried cooking in a restaurant’s kitchen once and was almost caught. I only barely got out alive.’
    Timothy has a mouthful of wine after he tosses away the tins, before tucking into his meagre meal. He closes his eyes dreamily, savouring the taste, then cocks an eyebrow at me. ‘Are you sure you won’t share a glass?’
    ‘Apart from brains, I can’t process anything,’ I tell him. ‘Liquids run clean through me. If I had any of that, I’d be sitting in a puddle by the end of the night.’
    Timothy clears his throat. ‘Ah. That might explain … I don’t wish to be rude, but you might want to …’ He wags a finger at me.
    ‘What are you talking about?’
    ‘When I was coming up the stairs behind you, I couldn’t help but notice that the back of your trousers seemed rather damp.’
    My right eyelid flies wide open. (The left lid still doesn’t work properly.) I feel behind and, sure enough, my fingers come away soaking.
    ‘Damn it! I fell into the Thames yesterday and swallowed a load of water. I puked up most of it but obviously not all. Sorry about this.’
    ‘No need to apologise,’ Timothy says. ‘We all have our crosses to bear. Can I be of any assistance? There are plenty of towels and sheets here. If you wish, I could fashion you a …’
    ‘… nappy?’ I growl.
    Timothy gulps and smiles sheepishly.
    ‘Don’t worry about it,’ I chuckle. ‘A wet bum is the least of my worries. I’ll be happy with a towel to sit on, if that’s all right with you.’
    ‘Absolutely.’ Timothy hurries off and comes back with two thick towels which he carefully places on a plastic chair. He waits for me to sit and give him the OK before taking his own seat and tucking into hisfood with a plastic knife and fork that he probably picked up in a takeaway.
    We chat as Timothy eats. He asks me where I went when I left him and I talk him through my trip to the West End, my run-in with Barnes and the other hunters, Sister Clare and her mad Order of the Shnax, their gruesome finale in Liverpool Street, all the rest. I hesitate when I get to the Trafalgar Square part of the story, finding it hard to talk about even now.
    ‘The soldiers drove you away?’ Timothy asks sympathetically.
    ‘No. They tried to kill me. They would have too – they had me pegged – except for Mr Dowling and his mutants.’
    I expect Timothy to look blank, but to my surprise he knows what I’m talking about. He was working on his last slice of bread, but now he lays it down and stares at me. ‘You’ve seen the mutants?’
    ‘Yeah.’
    His voice drops. ‘And