ZOM-B Baby by Darren Shan Page B

says. ‘A God who has more to worry about than just our fate. A God who maybe has an eye on billions of worlds, who can’t afford to spend His entire time trying to steer one particular species in the right direction. We can’t understand the mind of God and, from what you say, Dr Oystein doesn’t claim to. He’s simply doing what was asked of him. I can buy into that, a God who doesn’t govern directly, but who tries to lend a helping hand. In a way I’d prefer that to a God who ruled by divine decree.’
    ‘The only person who lent Dr Oystein a helping hand is himself,’ I jeer. ‘The voice in his head is his own. It has to be.’
    ‘It doesn’t,’ Timothy insists. ‘This is a world of marvels and wonders. A world of miracles, if you wish to put it that way. In such a world, why can’t God speak to Dr Oystein or anyone else?’
    ‘Because it’s
not
a world of marvels,’ I snarl. ‘It’s a world of science, maths and nature.’
    ‘
And
miracles,’ Timothy says stubbornly. ‘There are things which science can’t explain, wonders which confirm there is more to this universe than we know.’
    He downs the remains of his wine and sighs with contentment. Then he stands, a sparkle to his eyes.
    ‘It’s time I let you see my other visitor,’ he says. ‘Perhaps then you will be more inclined to accept the reality of the miraculous.’
    ‘If it’s not Elvis Presley or Michael Jackson, I’ll be very disappointed,’ I joke.
    ‘It’s neither of those fine men,’ he says. ‘But you’ll be impressed regardless, I guarantee it.’
    Then he leads me from the room and up the stairs of the echoing old brewery in search of wonder.

SIXTEEN
    Timothy guides me to a small room just off the massive area where most of his paintings are stacked. I recall spotting this door the last time we came through. I thought it was a storage room or something like that. And maybe it was once. But not any longer. Now it’s been turned into a bizarre nursery.
    There’s a cot in the middle of the room. Several mobiles hang from the ceiling. Lots of dolls and cuddly toys are stacked neatly in the corners. There’s a large, inflatable dinosaur. Soft balls. A couple ofactivity gyms. A mix of blue and pink curtains draped around the walls.
    ‘It’s overkill, I know,’ Timothy says with a sheepish chuckle. ‘I just couldn’t help myself. I had to have anything that I thought my guest might enjoy. It’s not like there are limits any more. The shops are full of toys that will never be used. Why not spoil the poor creature? Although, having said that, I don’t know if the little dear notices any of this.’
    ‘What are you talking about?’ I start towards the cot, then stop dead. ‘Don’t tell me it’s a zombie baby. It is, isn’t it? You’ve adopted a bloody undead baby!’
    ‘B …’ he starts to defend himself.
    ‘What the hell were you thinking?’ I shout. ‘I don’t care how cute it might look — if it’s a zombie, it’s deadly. One scratch or nip and you’re history. I can’t believe you’d risk everything just so you can play daddy.’
    ‘It’s not a zombie,’ Timothy says without losing his temper.
    I stare at the cot suspiciously. ‘Are you telling me it’s a real baby?’
    ‘I wouldn’t describe it that way either.’
    ‘You’re not making sense,’ I scowl.
    ‘That’s why you have to go and look,’ he smiles.
    I don’t want to. Something about this feels wrong. I want to back out and get far away from here and whatever’s in the cot. But fascination propels me.
    I edge forward cautiously, ready to turn and run if I sense a threat. Then I come within sight of the baby and I freeze. My right eye widens and even my injured left eyelid lifts a bit. I feel the walls of reality crumbling around me, the world tilting on its axis, the fingers of a nightmare reaching out to grab me.
    The baby is dressed in a long, white christening gown. Its tiny hands are crossed on its chest. Its nails are