ZOM-B 11 by Darren Shan Page A

evaded capture, but it must have been horrible, holed up in the gloom,
knowing they were doomed if their enemies found them, flinching at every unexpected sound or movement. I don’t want to saddle myself with the fear, the tension, the paranoia every time a rat
scuttles past.
    Also, my newly regained strength won’t last. I feel reasonably fine now, but I won’t in a few hours. Even if I inject myself with the other syringes, I’ll only buy myself half
a day, maybe a day at best, and I’m sure the Angels won’t abandon the search that swiftly.
    Flight is my preferred option. If I’m going down, I want to go down fighting, in the open, not cornered and helpless. It would make sense to slip into the sewers and try to lose them in
the dark, but I’ve spent enough time underground. I’m sick of the tunnels and bunkers. I belong up here, in the land of day and night.
    I step out of the shadows, a devil-may-care smirk on my face. I stride back through the doorway and out on to the road. I continue the way I was headed. And inside my head I issue a challenge to
the big, bad world — ‘Come get me, suckers!’

FIFTEEN
    I cross Whitechapel Road and continue south-east, looking to hit Limehouse at some point. I did think about reversing direction and heading west, since Dr Oystein’s new base is situated in
the East End, but they might anticipate that. In their position I’d focus the majority of my forces north and west, the areas where a fugitive would be most likely to run.
    Of course, they might have anticipated my anticipation and sought to second-guess me, but I’m not going to drive myself crazy by thinking like that!
    I go slower than previously, listening, watching. Cunning will serve me better than speed right now. It’s a game of cat and mouse, and since I can’t outrun my hunters, I need to
outsmart them.
    I keep to the inner sides of paths, ready to duck into a building if I catch sight of any Angels. But the streets seem to be deserted. The zombies are resting in the shade, while the living
abandoned their claim to the pavements long ago.
    I spot movement ahead and throw myself through the broken window of a coffee shop. I look for weapons, but there’s not much that will be of any use in a fight. In the end I grab a couple
of long spoons. If I can’t stab, at least I can gouge.
    I position myself close to the door, figuring it will be better to strike as they enter, rather than wait in the back for them to come find me. I hold the spoons loosely, biding my time.
    There are shuffling sounds outside and I prepare for battle.
    Then a zombie stumbles into view and I relax. It’s an old woman, green moss growing thickly across her collarbone, where she was bitten when alive. One of her eyes has been torn out. It looks like a relatively fresh wound. She’s moaning softly. I can tell she’s hungry, in even more
pain than most of her kind. Desperate for the brains which will ease her suffering. Willing to brave the discomfort of the daylight world in order to search for scraps that the faster, sharper
zombies might have missed during their night manoeuvres.
    The zombie turns her eye on me, determines I’m no good to her and pushes on. I feel sorry for the old biddy, but there are millions more in her lousy position, and there’s nothing I
can do for her.
    Then I have an idea and step out after the woman. I thought when I first saw her that she was an Angel. So there’s a good chance that if any Angels catch sight of her, they might think
she’s me. Some of them will probably have stationed themselves in houses, keeping watch, hoping I’ll pass by. The zombie might lure them out, or distract others who are on the street. I
can use her as a diversion, follow at a distance, duck for cover if I spy anyone darting towards her.
    I wait for the pitiful old lady to get a good way ahead of me, then trail after her, matching her sluggish pace, letting her act as my unwitting decoy. As long as she