by Darren Shan
‘I don’t know,’ Timothy says. He waits a few beats, then grins wickedly. ‘It’s a miracle.’
‘No,’ I choke. ‘There’s nothing miraculous about a freak like that. Diabolical, maybe.’
‘Don’t say such things,’ Timothy frowns. ‘It’s only a baby. It can’t help the way it’s been put together.’
‘But who created it?’ I ask, voice rising again. ‘Where did it come from? How can it live with a spike through its head?’
‘I don’t know,’ Timothy says, smiling lovingly at the white-eyed baby. ‘But that’s not the only remarkable thing. I found the child maybe three weeks ago. It was lying in the road close to the Aldgate East Tube entrance, near Whitechapel Art Gallery. That was one of my favourite galleries. Did you ever visit it?’
I shake my head, unable to glance away from the unnatural child.
‘The baby hasn’t eaten in all that time,’ Timothy continues. ‘I tried to feed it milk and biscuits when I first rescued it, but it wouldn’t swallow. I was going to poke a tube down its mouth and force-feed it, but I decided there was no point keeping the poor creature alive in such a pitiable condition. So I sat back and left it to nature, waiting for it to die.
‘As you can see, it hasn’t. It’s in the same condition today as it was when I found it.’
‘But how?’ I ask again. ‘What is it? Where did it come from?’
‘Like you, I’ve been asking those questions over and over,’ Timothy says. ‘No answers have presented themselves. For the first few days I didn’t leave its side. I stood watch, waiting for it to die, putting my work on hold. When I saw that it wasn’t going to pass away, I returned to my normal routine, though I spend most of my nights in here now. I’ve started reading stories to it. I don’t know if it can hear me or understand what I’m saying, but I like reading out loud.’
Timothy looks around at everything that he’s gathered and sighs. ‘Like I said, I know it’s overkill, but I can’t stop bringing back presents. I guess I was lonelier than I realised.’
‘Has it ever said anything?’ I ask, moving closer to the baby, staring at its teeth – fangs – and pale white lips.
‘No. Its mouth moves but always silently. What age do you think it is? When do babies start to speak?’
I can’t answer those questions. I don’t really care.
‘The babies in my dreams could speak,’ I whisper. ‘I need to know if this one can, if it says the same sort of things that they used to.’
‘How could it?’ Timothy scoffs. ‘This isn’t from your dreams. It’s real.’
‘Still …’ I reach towards the baby.
‘What are you doing?’ Timothy snaps.
‘I’m going to pull out the spike.’
‘Are you hell!’ he shouts, pushing me away.
‘Easy,’ I say, putting my hands behind my back, wary of accidentally scratching and infecting him. ‘I don’t want to hurt it. But I have to find out.’
‘You’re not going anywhere near that spike,’ Timothy growls. ‘It holds the poor thing’s brain in place. If you pull out the spike, you’ll kill it.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that,’ I mutter. ‘But even if I do, so what? Look at it, Timothy. That’s no normal baby. Whatever it is, wherever it came from, it’s not one of us. One of you,’ I correct myself.
‘Even so, it’s alive and defenceless and I’ve sworn to protect it,’ Timothy says grandly.
‘The damn thing has a spike through its head,’ I remind him. ‘It’s a bit too late for protection.’
‘Spike or no spike, it’s still alive,’ Timothy argues.
‘But what sort of a future does it have?’ I press. ‘For all we know it’s in agony and is silently begging for someone to end its pain. Maybe it will recover if we remove the spike. Who knows how a thing like this might function? For all we know, it doesn’t even have a brain.
‘It has no quality of life,’ I say, taking a step towards the cot. Timothy doesn’t try to stop me this time. ‘If we leave it as it is, it will definitely die in the end, whether it needs food or not. This way it has a chance. We might save it.’
‘Do you really believe that?’ Timothy whispers.
‘Yeah,’ I lie.
‘I only want what’s best for the little darling,’ he sighs.
‘This is the way forward,’ I assure him. ‘We can cover the hole with a bandage if we need to, maybe even stick the spike back in. It’s risky, I won’t deny it, but what choice do we have?’
‘We could stand by and not interfere,’ Timothy says, then shakes his head. ‘No. You’re right. That would be selfish of me. This way it has a chance. Go on, B. I’ll support you. I won’t blame you if it goes wrong.’
I stretch out a trembling hand and grip the spike above the baby’s eye. I stare again at that pure white orb, remembering the babies in my dreams, how their eyes turned red when they attacked me. I gulp. Tighten my grip. And pull.
The spike comes out with very little resistance. There’s a small sucking sound as it clears the clammy flesh. Blood oozes out of the hole, but slowly, not in huge amounts. A few bits of brain trickle from the spike.
Timothy and I stare at the baby. Neither of us says a word.
Nothing happens.
Then, maybe a full minute after I’ve withdrawn the spike from the baby’s head, it shudders. Its arms uncross and its fingers claw at the blankets beneath it. As I watch with disbelief and horror, its eyes turn red, as if filling with blood, and it starts to scream in a terrifyingly familiar, tinny voice. ‘mummy. mummy. mummy. mummeeeeeEEEEEEE.’
SEVENTEEN
The baby keeps squealing, the same word repeated without even a pause for breath, calling for its mummy. The high-pitched noise cuts through me, making me wince and grind my teeth. Timothy is staring slack-jawed at the whining, red-eyed child.
‘Make it stop,’ I bark, covering my ears with my hands.
‘How?’ Timothy asks.
‘Stick the spike back in its head.’
‘No,’ he says, face turning a shade paler at the thought. ‘We can’t do that. Let’s find it a dummy.’
He lurches to a shelf stacked with baby stuff. He roots through the neat pile until he finds one. He hurries back and leans over the cot, cooing to the hellish baby, ‘There, there. It’s all right. We’ll take care of you. No need to cry. Does it hurt? We’ll make the pain go away. You’re our little baby, aren’t you?’
‘Less of that crap,’ I snort, shuddering at the thought of being mother to such an unearthly creature. ‘Just shut the damn thing up.’
‘Be nice, B,’ Timothy tuts, then yelps and takes a quick step away from the cot. ‘It tried to bite me!’
‘Oh, give it to me,’ I snap, nudging him aside and taking the dummy from him. I bend over, fingers of my left hand extended to widen the baby’s mouth if necessary. Before I can touch its lips, the tiny creature’s head shoots forward and its fangs snap shut on the bones sticking out of my middle and index fingers.
‘Let go!’ I roar with fright and try to pull my hand free. The baby rises with my arm, dangling from the bones, fangs locked into them, chewing furiously, head jerking left and right.
I wheel away from the cot, shaking my arm, trying to dislodge the monstrous infant. Timothy is yelling at me to be careful, not to drop the child. I swear loudly and try to hurl the baby loose.
I lose my balance, crash into the inflatable dinosaur and stumble to my knees. As I push myself to my feet again, the baby chews through the bones, drops to the floor and collapses on its back. It immediately resumes screaming for its mummy.
‘Bloody hell!’ I pant, retreating swiftly. My hand is trembling.
‘I told you it wasn’t a good idea,’ Timothy says smugly. ‘It obviously doesn’t want a dummy, and with teeth like that, who are we to argue?’
‘Sod what it wants,’ I snarl. ‘We have to shut it up.’
‘You can try again if you wish,’ Timothy chuckles. ‘Personally I like my
fingers the way they are. Those teeth are amazing. I wonder what they’re made of?’
‘You go on wondering,’ I growl, crossing the room to pick up the spike. ‘I’m putting a stop to this.’
‘No,’ Timothy says sternly. ‘You can’t do that.’
‘I bloody well can,’ I huff, advancing on the wailing baby.
Timothy steps in my way and crosses his arms.
‘Move it, painter-boy. I’m not playing games.’
‘Neither am I,’ he says. ‘You’re not sticking that into the baby’s head. You might kill it.’
‘Do I look like I care?’
‘No. That’s why I can’t let you proceed. You’re not thinking clearly. You’re upset and alarmed, understandably so. But when you calm down, you’ll see that I’m right. This is a living baby, calling for its mother. It’s afraid and lonely, probably in pain and shock. We have to comfort it, not treat it like a rabid animal that needs to be exterminated.’
‘Didn’t you see what it did with those teeth?’ I roar, waving my gnawed fingerbones at him.
‘Yes, but to be fair, you were attacking it. I would have bitten in self-defence too if you’d come at me like that.’
‘But you wouldn’t have been able to chew through my bones,’ I note angrily.
‘So its teeth are tougher than ours,’ he shrugs. ‘What of it? That’s no reason to risk the poor thing’s life. I can’t let you stick that spike in again.’
‘How are you going to stop me?’ I challenge him.
‘Just by standing here,’ he says. ‘You’ll have to wrestle me out of the way to get to the baby. If you do that, you’ll almost certainly scratch me. That would mean my death. I don’t think you’d kill me so recklessly.’
‘I’m a zombie,’ I say softly, moving closer, going up on my toes to give him the evil eye. ‘You don’t know how my mind works, what I’d do if pushed.’
‘Perhaps,’ he says. ‘But I’m willing to take that chance. This baby needs our help and love. It’s our duty to study it, protect it, nurse it back to health. It can talk, so perhaps it can answer our questions when it recovers, tell us where it came from, what it is.’
‘The babies never wanted to discuss much in my dreams,’ I sniff. ‘They only wanted to slaughter me.’
‘But this isn’t a dream,’ Timothy says. ‘The baby simply reacted the way any cornered creature would. Look at it lying there now, helpless as a … well, as a baby. It doesn’t pose a threat to us.’
I shake my head stubbornly. ‘It’s a monster. Of course it poses a threat.’
‘You’re a monster too,’ Timothy smiles. ‘But I’m not afraid of you and I’m not afraid of the baby either. We can be its foster parents.’
I stare at him oddly. ‘What, become a couple?’
‘Of course not,’ he smiles. ‘But we could be partners and raise it together.’
‘Why would I want to do that?’
‘Salvation,’ he says softly, stepping aside when he sees me hesitate. ‘My paintings have kept me busy, and I plan to carry on doing them for as long as I can. But I lost a lot that defined me as a human when the world fell. Maybe this baby is a way for me to retrieve some of my humanity, and for you too.
‘I haven’t been truly happy since the zombies took control. Content, yes, with my artistic output, but happy? No. I don’t think you’re happy either. This is a chance for us to put the darkness behind us for a while.’
‘What if you’re wrong?’ I croak. ‘What if the baby’s as monstrous as it looks and only drags us further into trouble?’
Timothy shrugs. ‘Isn’t it worth taking that risk?’
I have a clear line of attack now. If I darted at the baby, Timothy wouldn’t be able to stop me. I could smash its skull with the spike, crush its throat, rip it to pieces.
But how could I live with myself if I did that to a baby? I’ve sunk lower than I ever dreamt I could, murdered, scraped heads bare of their brains, lived among the fetid and the damned. But to butcher a baby just because I’m afraid of it, because I had nightmares about things like it when I was younger …
‘That freak will be the ruin of us both,’ I pout.
‘Perhaps,’ Timothy grins, understanding from my expression that I can’t follow through on my threat. ‘But we have to take that chance. Now let’s see what we can do to help this poor lamb. Maybe it will stop screaming if we put it back in its cot, tend to its wound and show that we mean no harm. I’m sure that with a little TLC it will respond to our ministrations and –’
Timothy stops. He had started to bend to pick up the baby, but now he turns and stares at the doorway, into the gloom of the large room beyond. He cocks his head and frowns.
‘Do you hear that?’ he whispers.
‘What?’
I step up beside him, trying to focus. The screams of the baby – ‘mummy. mummy. mummy.’ – fill my head and I find it hard to tune them out.
Timothy moves through the doorway as if sleepwalking, eyes wide, a slight tic in his left cheek. I follow and close the door behind me, muffling the sounds of the baby.
I zone in on the new noises. They’re coming from outside the building. Loud, scratching sounds, similar to a nail being dragged across a blackboard, only much sharper, and not one nail but dozens at the same time.
‘What is it?’ I ask softly, although part of me has already guessed. I’m not stupid. As I’ve stated proudly on more than one occasion in the past, I can put two and two together.
‘Zombies,’ Timothy says and his expression never alters. ‘They’ve heard the baby. They’re climbing the walls.’ He points to the boarded-over windows with a surprisingly steady finger. Unlike the thick boards nailed over the windows on the ground floor, those up here were designed primarily to keep in the light, not keep out the ranks of the living dead. With all the oversized windows in this place, that would be impossible. This is a gallery, not a fortress. Anonymity was its only real defence.
‘They know that we’re here,’ Timothy says. ‘They’re going to break in.’
And with those few calm words he pronounces his death sentence.
EIGHTEEN
‘We have to get out of here!’ I roar. ‘Where are the exits?’
Timothy shakes his head wordlessly. He’s staring at the boards covering the windows. He looks more thoughtful than scared.
‘Timothy!’ I scream, wanting to grab and shake him, but afraid of piercing his skin with my bones.
‘The roof,’ he murmurs.
‘No good,’ I grunt. ‘They’re climbing the walls. They can get to us in seconds on the roof. We have to go down to the ground floor, escape out the back, try to lose them on the streets.’
The first zombies start pounding on the glass and it shatters. They tear into the boards, ripping them loose. I catch glimpses of bones, fingers, faces, fangs.
Windows run the whole length of this room. The boards on pretty much all of them begin to crack and snap beneath the strain. There must be dozens of zombies out there, maybe more.
‘Come on,’ I shout, heading for the stairs.
‘The baby,’ Timothy says.
‘You’ve got to be bloody joking!’
‘The baby,’ he says, stubbornly this time. ‘I won’t leave it to them.’
‘You can’t save it,’ I growl. ‘Its cries are what’s drawing them. If we take it with us, they’ll follow the noise.’
‘But it’s a baby …’ he says miserably.
‘No baby of our world,’ I snort, then run with a wild idea. ‘Maybe one of the zombies is its mother. That might explain why it looks so strange. She might have been pregnant when she was turned. Maybe it was born after she died.’
‘That sounds feasible,’ Timothy nods.
‘If that’s the case, they might accept it as their own. It might find a home with them.’
‘Or they might rip it to shreds,’ Timothy notes glumly. ‘Maybe zombies stuck the spike through its head in the first place.’
&
nbsp; I roll my eyes. ‘Either way, the baby’s going to be theirs in a minute. We can’t stop them. We can put up a pointless fight and get torn apart or focus on our own necks and maybe make it out of here. Your choice, Timothy. I already died once. If they kill me again, it’s not that big a deal.’
I wait for him to make up his mind. I’ll stick by him no matter what he decides. He’s my friend and I want to do whatever I can to protect him, even though I know I can’t.
Timothy licks his lips, torn between wanting to be a hero and knowing his limits. There’s a loud snapping noise and the first of the zombies tumbles through the broken boards.
‘God forgive us!’ Timothy cries and races for the stairs, leaving the screeching baby to whatever fate has in store for it.
We pound down the stairs, taking them two or three at a time. I’m in agony, my broken ribs digging into my flesh and organs with every lurching movement. I ignore the pain as best I can, trying to focus on Timothy and getting him out of here before the zombies catch up.
We race through the room of blank canvases and supplies, the sound of the snapping boards above following us like the beat of tom-toms.
‘Almost there,’ Timothy pants, overtaking me as I stumble. ‘There’s a door at the rear of the building which I earmarked for an eventuality such as this. It opens quickly and quietly. If we can get outside, there’s a good chance we can –’
He stops.
‘Keep going,’ I snap. ‘This is no time to –’
I stop too.
We’ve come to a short set of steps. They lead to the main downstairs room, a huge, open space. The windows at this level were boarded over professionally to keep out zombies. This should be the safest room in the entire building.
It’s not.
The boards have held. So has the front door. But there are other doors. I’m sure that Timothy and the people who occupied this building before he came here did all that they could to secure those entrances. But there must have been a weak link somewhere, a chain that snapped, a lock that broke, hinges that crumbled.
Because the room is thick with zombies.
