Free Zom-B City by Darren Shan

the London Dungeon used to be here before it moved. I always loved that ghoulish maze of torment and atrocity, but I don’t think I’ll ever bother with it again. This city of the dead boasts more than enough public horrors, like the hanging zombie on . . .
    I stop and wince — the zombie who was dangling from the lamp post on Bethnal Green Road! I meant to free him when I left Timothy’s place, but I forgot all about him. It’s no biggie. In fact it seems ridiculous to worry about a single zombie in this city of monsters. But if I was in his position and someone had the power to set me free and didn’t . . .
    What if you free him and he ends up killing Timothy? part of me sulks as I turn to head back the way I came.
    ‘That’s life,’ I shrug.
    The zombie doesn’t thank me when I cut him down, or show the least sign that he’s grateful. Instead, having paused to sniff me in case I’m worth tucking into, he hurries away, seeking shelter, stumbling into anything in his path, unable to see clearly out of his almost totally white eyes.
    Feeling more of a time-wasting fool than a good Samaritan, I retrace my steps and make it back to Tooley Street by early afternoon. Moving on, I slip past Southwark Bridge and cast a wary eye over the shell of the Globe. I never went to a show there – wild horses couldn’t have dragged me – but I know all about this place. It’s where they used to put on Shakespearean plays every summer.
    As I consider the fact that nobody will ever stage a three- or four-hour version of Hamlet or King Lear here ever again, I break out into a smile and chuckle wickedly — the downfall of civilisation isn’t all bad news!

SIXTEEN
    I’m heading for the impressive-looking Tate Modern when I spot a small boat pulling up to the pier. I watch with astonishment as nine people pile out and march towards shore like tourists on a day trip.
    But these aren’t like any tourists I’ve ever seen. All nine – four men and five women – are dressed in blue robes. Their arms are bare. Each has a tiny blue symbol scrawled across their forehead. And they chant softly as they progress.
    I hang back as the group ignores the art museum and heads on to the pedestrian bridge, which my dad used to call the Wobbly Bridge, since it wobbled so badly when it first opened that they had to close it for months to steady it up.
    Something about these people unsettles me. They don’t seem to be carrying any weapons, yet they’re walking around openly. Hasn’t anyone told them about the zombies?
    I follow the group on to the bridge, wait until we’re halfway across – St Paul’s Cathedral towers ahead of us – then call out to them, ‘Hey!’
    They stop but don’t turn. I edge closer, skin prickling, ready to dive over the side of the bridge if they produce guns from beneath their robes and open fire. But although the men and women glance at me as I slip past them, nobody reacts in any other way.
    The woman at the head of the group studies me with a solemn expression as I stop before her. She’s pretty, but has a pinched, stern face. Her hair is pure white – all the others have white hair too, which makes me think it’s dye – so it’s hard to judge her age.
    ‘You are one of the restless dead,’ the woman says, having noted the hole in my chest.
    ‘Yeah.’

    She cocks her head. ‘I did not know that the undead could speak.’
    ‘Most can’t. I’m an exception.’
    The woman nods, then spreads her arms wide. ‘I am Sister Clare, of the Order of the Shnax. Have you come to attack us, foul creature of the lost?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘You have not come to slice open our skulls and feast on our brains?’ she presses, pale blue eyes hard in the glaring sunlight.
    ‘Not unless you want me to,’ I joke.
    ‘There!’ the woman exclaims to those behind her. ‘The blessings of the Shnax are with us, as I told you they would be.’
    The people in the robes mutter appreciatively and bow their heads. Sister