by Darren Shan
The next time I saw him, he was insane. He tried to shoot the doc. While subduing Burke, I accidentally infected him and he turned into a zombie. We knew that Mr Dowling must have got hold of him and fried his brain, because the very last thing he wheezed to me before he lost his humanity was the clown’s name.
Dr Oystein was keeping the undead Billy Burke in County Hall at my request, on the off chance that he might revitalise. I wonder if he brought the zombie teacher with him when they moved base, or if he left Burke behind, or set him free. I must ask him when we’ve finished discussing our other business. I liked Burke and feel guilty for robbing him of his life. I want to do right by him.
The front door of the building is open. There are several zombies on the ground floor, standing or sitting, staring off blankly into space, waiting for night to fall. I could shoo them out, but they’re not bothering me, so I leave them be.
I shuffle forward, meaning to crawl up the stairs to check that Timothy’s paintings are in good condition. The artist loved his drawings. They gave his life meaning. I hope Mr Dowling’s mutants didn’t destroy or disfigure any of them when they found Burke here and went to work on him.
Then I spot a few folders lying open on the floor and pause. They’re some of the files from the trolley that Burke and Rage were lugging through the streets on that awful day. I don’t know what my ex-teacher was hoping to find in them, and I don’t really care, but the sight of the folders distresses me. They remind me of my history with Mr Burke, his grisly conversion, the role I played in it. I decide to tidy the place up, return the folders to the trolley, maybe push it out of here if I have the strength. At least that way I won’t have to be forcibly reminded of the good friend that I lost.
With a groan, I bend and pick up the nearest folder. I stare at it sadly. Perhaps these were the pages Burke was looking at when Mr Dowling snuck up on him and struck. The final words he read as a living human, unaware that the end was so close.
Curious, I flick through the pages, trying to put myself in Burke’s shoes, to imagine what he might have been thinking about. The pages are densely packed with small print, lots of paragraphs crammed in, technical jargon. I can’t understand most of it and I start to lay the folder aside.
Then I spot a name that stops me — Dowling.
I raise the folder again and try reading the paragraph from the first line, but it doesn’t make sense taken out of context, so I flick back to the beginning of the chapter and start from there.
I’m not a quick reader. Normally it takes me a long time to plough through a chunk of text. But, as the significance of what I’m reading sinks in, I find myself flying through the pages.
After a while, I put the folder down and numbly pick up one of the others. Again I find the name of Dowling. It appears often on the pages. If I’d been putting these dossiers together, I’d have been more cautious. I wouldn’t have plastered names across them. But the people compiling these reports were confident that they would never be read by the general public. They knew that if all went according to plan, there soon wouldn’t even be a general public.
Because these are the blueprints for the end of mankind, records of the build-up to the release of the zombie virus. They chart all sorts of activities that were going on worldwide in the months and years before that apocalyptic day. I knew that the virus had been spread on purpose, that corrupt, powerful people had used it to cement their stranglehold on the world. But I had no idea it was this convoluted or that the players involved were so numerous or devious.
In a hollow daze I pick up another folder to find more of the same. Details of the main participants, politicians, soldiers, scientists, engineers, media moguls. Drawings of complexes like the one I was housed in as a zom head, along with plans for the development of zombie-free islands. Lists of the building materials that they sourced, supplies of food, drink and ammunition that they stockpiled.
The files show how the virus was replicated, samples being delivered to major cities and towns, how the global release was coordinated, in many cases using stooges who had no idea what they were unleashing. The pages explain how lines of communication were brought crashing down, to make it harder for the survivors to get in contact with one another and organise a fightback.
There are figures outlining payments made. Those who were corrupt were bribed. Those who wouldn’t play ball were discredited, humiliated, financially crippled. In certain cases assassins were hired to execute those with a conscience who were considered a problem.
I don’t know where Burke found these folders, but they’re dynamite. Maybe they were stored in a military safe house that had fallen to Mr Dowling’s mutants or a surprise zombie attack. He might have learnt of the whereabouts of such places when he was working with the army as a spy for Dr Oystein. I bet Burke didn’t realise what he’d laid his hands on until he started reading. His mind must have boggled.
What did he feel when he saw the names and started piecing it all together? Terror? Disgust? Panic? I’m not sure, but I know by what happened in County Hall what he felt in the end — hatred, fury and madness.
I haven’t got to that stage yet. I’m still in shock, unable to believe what I’m reading, even though it’s all laid out clearly. I want to be wrong. I want this to be a smokescreen, something cooked up by vile, merciless individuals, a web of discrediting lies to entrap those who would oppose them.
But I’m not that dumb. I can recognise the truth when it’s put before me. Even though I wish to all the gods that I couldn’t.
Names. It all comes back to names. Thousands of people are listed in the files. Most of them mean nothing to me, but some are familiar — Justin Bazini, Daniel and Luca Wood, Vicky Wedge. World leaders. Men and women who owned newspapers and TV stations. Heads of major companies.
One name in particular keeps cropping up. Dowling. It’s linked with everyone of substance who played a crucial part in the downfall of the human race. The sinister and secretive Dowling seems to have been everywhere at once, pulling strings, manipulating anyone who might be of benefit to his foul cause, setting mankind up for its greatest fall. He got balls rolling, pulled in the main instigators of the unholy assault, organised and distributed funds to anyone who could help him.
Dowling involved Justin Bazini and the rest of the Board. It was Dowling who flew across the world, meeting presidents, generals and religious gurus, asking for their support, demanding it, extracting it. Dowling who organised the early experiments, who decided the schedule, who set the date.
I never thought one man could wield so much power, so cunningly, so wickedly, so destructively. Or that such a man could keep beneath the radar, unknown to the masses, hidden by his underlings even while he swept across the globe like an undead tsunami.
If these files had surfaced before the zombie uprising, they would have provided all the proof needed to blow Dowling’s cover, to expose him to the world for the foul-hearted fiend that he was. But I’m not sure it would have made any real difference. He had so much support from those at the highest levels that I think he could have shrugged off the controversy and pushed ahead regardless. Who could have stopped him when the people loyal to him controlled such massive swathes of government, the military, the media, the major religions?
I know now why Burke’s last word was Dowling. These files would have tipped any sane person over the edge. I was wrong to assume that my old teacher had run into Mr Dowling and that his brain had been messed with by the clown. It simply went into overload when he read these papers and absorbed so much crushing information all at once.
I also realise that when I held Burke in my arms, and he croaked the word with his last living breath, I misunderstood his intentions. He was trying to warn me, yes, but of a far greater danger than the one I imagined.
I thought I knew the name of my greatest enemy, but I only had it half right. These folders have shown me that the architect of humanity’s downfall wasn’t my husband, Mr Albrecht Dowling, lunati
c clown and all-round psycho killer.
It was his brother . . .
TWELVE
Dr Oystein Dowling.
THIRTEEN
I sit hunched over the folders, staring at the words, slowly flicking through the pages now. I feel sick, numb, betrayed.
There was only one person in this world that I believed in. One constant in my life that I clung to. No matter what else happened, I was sure I could put my faith in Dr Oystein, that he would always stand by those who had pledged themselves to his noble cause, that he – maybe he alone among all the adults I’d ever known – was truly good.
How could I have been so wrong? How could he have fooled so many of us for all this time?
I must be mistaken. The folders have to be crammed with lies. The doc can’t be the bad guy. He can’t. Nobody that caring and loving could be evil at his core. A vicious criminal mastermind couldn’t maintain a warm, considerate front, not for that long, not so artfully.
I need to ignore the files, the overwhelming evidence they present, the horrible documented neatness of it all. Look for flaws, discrepancies, forgeries. This is probably the work of Mr Dowling’s mutants, or Owl Man, or the Board, someone who wants to turn Dr Oystein’s supporters against him. I have to mull this over and proceed cautiously, not make any rash decisions until I’ve spoken with . . .
‘B?’
. . . Dr Oystein in the flesh.
I look up and he’s there. Standing before me, beaming, eyes filled with hope, love and concern.
‘I was so worried you wouldn’t be here,’ he cries, striding forward, extending his arms wide to hug me. ‘I was angry with the twins. One of them should have stayed with you. I had a sick feeling in my stomach all the way here. I was sure Mr Dowling’s men would find you and take you from us again. I think I broke some records as I was racing across from Bow. I didn’t know I could run so . . .’
He draws to a halt, taking in my wounds, my sliced-to-ribbons face, my ruined torso, the crown of nails hammered into my head, the endless array of cuts, gouges and scars, the bloodsoaked bandages. I’ve gone through all sorts of torments since the doc last saw me. He shakes his head, horrified.
‘Oh, B,’ he whispers. ‘What have they done to you?’
I stare at him blankly and say nothing.
‘Was this the work of Dan-Dan or Mr Dowling?’ Dr Oystein thunders. ‘I know that Daniel Wood is dead, so there is nothing I can do about that foul specimen, but if the clown did this to you, I will make him pay. Who hurt you, B?’
I stare at him blankly and say nothing.
Dr Oystein waits for me to respond. When I don’t, he licks his lips and glances at the zombies in the room with us, making sure they don’t pose a threat. Then he croaks, ‘The vial . . . Mr Dowling’s sample of Schlesinger-10 . . . is it too much to hope that you might have . . . ?’
I stare at him blankly and say nothing.
Dr Oystein grimaces. ‘I’m sorry. That can wait. It was insensitive of me to ask. Maybe the thought never even crossed your mind. We must tend to your injuries. I brought many of your fellow Angels with me. They are waiting outside. We will transport you to our new base as carefully as we can. You’ll need to rest in a Groove Tube for a long time. Then I will stitch you together and find replacements for the pieces that have been cut away. I won’t lie — you’ll never be quite the same again. But I can do more for you than you might imagine.’
I stare at him blankly and say nothing.
‘But first . . .’ the doc says brightly and produces a syringe. ‘This is a concentrated solution of the liquid that we use in the Groove Tubes. It will act like a shot of adrenalin, restore some of your strength and ease the worst of the pain.’
As numb as I am, I know I need that pick-me-up, so I break my silence and mumble, ‘That sounds good.’
Dr Oystein crouches next to me and takes my right arm. I observe mutely as he tenderly sticks the tip of the needle into a vein and softly pushes down on the plunger. After pumping maybe a fifth of the liquid into my arm, he removes the needle and inserts it into my left arm, then my legs, one after the other.
‘Our blood does not flow swiftly,’ he says as he works. ‘With others, I would inject it into their heart, and it would be slowly pumped around the body, but obviously that is not an option in your case.’ He smiles briefly, then injects the last of the mixture into my neck. ‘You should start to notice the effects in a matter of minutes, as your body begins to absorb the solution. You will enjoy only a few hours of relief before your energy ebbs again, but that should be more than enough time for our purposes. I have brought another couple of syringes, just in case, but I do not think we will need them.’
Dr Oystein takes hold of my hand with both of his and squeezes gingerly. ‘I’ve been so worried about you, B. I was distraught when I learnt that you had sneaked out, that Rage had betrayed us, that you had been taken prisoner. If I could have done anything to rescue you, believe me, I would have. But my hands were tied. I had to simply wait and hope and pray.’
I stare at the good doctor and fight the urge to curl my upper lip. I tell myself again that I shouldn’t jump to conclusions, that there could be more to this than what the folders imply. I have to give him a chance to defend himself. I don’t want to accuse him, only to look like an ungrateful fool when he blows the accusations out of the water.
As my flesh tingles and vitality returns to my limbs, I try to think of a subtle way to broach the taboo topic. I don’t find one, but I do recall my initial meeting with the doc, and that provides me with my opening line.
‘You said that Oystein was your first name.’
His eyes crinkle. ‘Pardon?’
‘That first day we met, when you were showing me round County Hall, you jokingly said that you’d almost forgotten what your surname was.’
Dr Oystein chuckles. ‘You have a good memory. ’
‘You never did tell me,’ I press.
‘It’s not important,’ he says lightly.
‘I think it is,’ I contradict him. ‘Let’s play a game.’
‘What sort of a game?’ he asks, letting go of my hand and staring at me with a quizzical expression, half-smiling, half-concerned, not sure where I’m going with this.
‘Let’s call it the Rumpelstiltskin game.’ I grin humourlessly. ‘That was one of my favourite stories when I was a kid, especially the bit where the girl has three chances to guess his name.’
‘We do not have time for this, B,’ he mutters, and I can tell by the way his expression changes that he knows I’ve rumbled him. The dark, spiteful look that flashes across his face is all the confirmation I need that the folders are telling the terrible truth. But I carry on anyway, not wanting to believe the worst until I hear him admit it.
‘Oh, there’s always time for a good game,’ I say grimly. ‘Let me think . . . is your name . . . Oystein Smith?’
When Dr Oystein is silent, I pull a long face and answer for him. ‘No. So is it . . . Oystein Jones?’
Again he’s silent, and again I answer on his behalf. ‘No. Last chance. Could it possibly be Oystein . . .’ I start to make a drawn-out D sound, but he cuts me short.
‘. . . Dowling,’ he says quietly. ‘Yes, B, you are correct. I am Oystein Dowling, and Albrecht is my estranged brother.’
I moan wretchedly. I didn’t think it would be this easy, that he’d admit his guilt so swiftly. In a way I wish it had been harder. If he’d tried to deny the accusation, I could have gone on believing for a while that it might not be true.
Dr Oystein lowers his gaze. I expect him to attack me or to start offering up excuses, but he only looks around sadly at the folders, taking note of them for the first time.
‘I assume you found out through these,’ he says with a sigh. ‘Nobody was meant to keep a record of what we were doing. I often stressed the need to leave no paper trail. But people cannot escape their nature. I guessed that some would disobey my orders, in case they needed the documents to b
lackmail me or point the finger of blame solely in my direction. Humans are so predictable.’
He picks up one of the folders and studies the pages, tutting softly. ‘I suppose Billy Burke tracked these down. That explains why he tried to kill me. I couldn’t be sure, the day he came after me. I hoped that my brother had put him up to it, but Billy didn’t strike me as a madman when he stormed into County Hall, just somebody who was very angry. I should have retraced his steps and destroyed the incriminating evidence, but I would have had to investigate by myself — it was not a task I could have set one of my Angels. If I was wrong, and he had fallen foul of Albrecht, I didn’t want to walk into a trap and end up in my brother’s clutches. So I turned a blind eye to the event and hoped it would not come back to haunt me. That was a foolish mistake. I have not made many of those over the decades.’
‘Is it true?’ I hiss. ‘Did you do . . . this?’ I wave a hand at the folders.
Dr Oystein nods slowly. ‘Yes.’
I want to hit him with my most barbed insult, but there isn’t a curse strong enough to convey what I’m feeling. And if I scream, the Angels outside will rush to his rescue. So I don’t bother with words. Instead I hurl myself at the century-old zombie and haul him to the ground.
We roll across the floor and I scrape his face. A couple of fingerbones dig deeply into his left cheek, scarring him.
He doesn’t react.
I land on top of the doc and punch wildly, pummelling his stomach, his chest, his face.
He doesn’t react.
I grab his head and bang it down hard on the floor. If I had all my strength, I’d smash his skull open and end this clash immediately, but, as things stand, I can only hope to scramble his brains inside their protective covering.
