by Darren Shan
‘There aren’t many,’ Carl says, ‘but we get a few passing through, and Ciara is a permanent fixture.’
‘She was here when we first moved in,’ Ashtat explains. ‘She worked in one of the hotel restaurants. Dr Oystein calls her the queen of the dinner ladies. She’s so stylish, isn’t she? I asked her once why she chose to follow such a career. She said because she liked it, and we should all do what we like in life.’
‘Isn’t she afraid of being turned into one of us?’ I ask.
‘That cannot happen,’ Ashtat says. ‘If she was infected, she would become a revived. But no, she is not afraid. She feels safe around us. She knows we would not deliberately turn her. Of course it could happen accidentally if she fell against one of us and got scratched, but she is happy to take that risk. She says there are no guarantees of safety anywhere in this world now.’
‘But if she is ever turned, God help the bugger who does it to her,’ Shane growls. ‘I don’t care if it’s an accident — if anyone hurts Ciara, I’ll come after them with everything I have.’
‘You’re my hero,’ Carl simpers. ‘Now shut up and eat.’
Shane scowls but digs in as ordered.
I tuck into the gruel, not bothering with the spoon which Ciara supplied, just tipping it straight into my mouth from the bowl. I used to think it was disgusting, but having had to scoop brains out of skulls to survive since leaving the underground complex, I’m less fussy now.
Jakob is first to finish – he doesn’t eat all of his gruel – and he reaches for the bucket and turns aside, sticking a couple of fingers down his throat. The rest of us follow his example when we’re ready and the room comes alive with the sound of a few dozen zombies throwing up.
The children of the night — what sweet music we make!
THIRTEEN
Nobody says much for a while after we’ve finished eating and puking. We all look a bit sheepish. It’s not easy doing this in public, even for those who’ve been living together as Angels for months. It feels like having a dump in front of your friends. I’ve done a lot of crazy things over the years, but I drew the line at that! Yet here we are, all thirty plus of us, looking like we’ve been caught with our pants down around our ankles.
Ashtat pulls something out of a pocket, closes her hands over it and starts to pray silently. I roll my eyes at the boys and make a gagging motion, but they don’t laugh. When Ashtat finishes and unclasps her hands, I see that the object is a crucifix.
‘What are you doing with that?’ I ask.
‘Praying.’
‘With a cross? Don’t you guys use . . . I don’t know . . . but not a cross. Those are for us lot.’
‘Us lot?’ Ashtat repeats icily.
‘Christians.’
‘What makes you think I’m not a Christian?’
I snort. ‘You’re an Arab. There aren’t any Christians in the Middle East.’
‘Actually there are,’ Ashtat says tightly. ‘Quite a few, for your information.’
‘I’m not talking about people who go there on pilgrimage,’ I sniff.
‘Nor am I,’ she says. ‘I’m talking about Arab Christians.’
‘Pull the other one,’ I laugh.
Ashtat raises an eyebrow. ‘You don’t think you can be both an Arab and a Christian?’
‘Of course not. You’re one or the other.’
‘Really?’ she jeers. ‘So you think that all Arabs are Muslims?’
‘Yeah,’ I mutter, although I’m getting the sinking feeling that I’m on a hiding to nothing. ‘You all worship Allah.’
‘And who is Allah?’ she presses.
‘Your god.’
‘No,’ she barks. ‘Our god. God and Allah are one and the same. Assuming you believe in God.’
‘Well, I’m not religious, but if I did believe, it would be in God, not Allah.’
‘As I just told you,’ she says, ‘Allah is God. Our religions have the same roots. Muslims believe in the Old Testament and they revere Christ, Mary and all the saints that Christians do.’
I scratch my head and stare at her, lost for words.
‘You don’t know anything about Islam, do you?’ she says.
‘Not really, no,’ I admit grudgingly.
Ashtat starts to laugh, then grimaces. ‘I’m sorry. I should not mock you for being ignorant. In my experience, most of your people knew nothing about mine. We were just potential terrorists in your eyes.’
I want to protest but I can’t, because it’s the truth.
‘I’m not going to give you a history lesson,’ Ashtat goes on. ‘If you are truly interested, you can look up the facts yourself. But Muslims and Christians – Jews too – all started out in the same place and believe in the same God. We branched along the way, but at our core we are the same.
‘I’m Muslim,’ she continues, ‘but one of my grandmothers was Christian. She converted when she came to this country and married my grandfather, but she told her children and grandchildren about her old beliefs and encouraged us to respect Christianity. The Virgin Mary was her favourite and I often say a prayer to her, thinking of my grandmother, especially in these troubled times.’
Ashtat stops and waits for me to respond. I can only gawp at her. It’s like I’ve been told that the Earth actually is flat or the moon truly is made of cheese.
‘Why did your people hate us if that’s the case?’ Shane asks. This is obviously news to him too.
‘Why did your people hate us?’ Ashtat retorts.
‘Because of September the tenth and all the other crap,’ Shane says.
‘You mean September the eleventh,’ Carl sighs, rolling his eyes.
‘What about the Crusades?’ Ashtat counters. ‘Western Christians tried to wipe out my people, to steal our land and treasures. Later, in the twentieth century, you divided up our nations as it suited you, to govern us as you saw fit. You . . .’ She shakes her head. ‘We could argue about this forever, but it would not do any good. I don’t hate anyone or blame anyone or see myself as being part of any army except the army of the Angels. The old grudges seem ridiculous now that the world has changed so much.’
‘You’re the one who started the argument,’ I pout.
‘I was not arguing,’ she contradicts me. ‘I was simply pointing out a matter of fact, in response to your assertion that Arabs could not also be Christians.’
‘All right. I stand corrected. Happy now?’
‘Yes,’ Ashtat says, putting away her crucifix.
‘I didn’t mean any harm,’ I add softly.
She smiles. ‘I know. Forget about it.’
‘My dad . . .’ I consider telling them how I was raised, about my racist father, what happened with Tyler, how I’m trying to be different. But before I can decide how to start, a Chinese guy enters the dining room and claps loudly.
All conversation comes to an immediate halt. Everyone rises and bows. The newcomer waits a moment, then bows smoothly in return. When he straightens, he looks around, spots me and comes across.
He’s a bit taller than me, although not a lot older, maybe five or six years my senior, dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt. No shoes. Bones jut out of his toes and fingers. They’ve been carefully trimmed into dagger-like tips.
He stops in front of me. I’m the only person still sitting. I glance at the others but they don’t look at me. Their gazes are fixed dead ahead.
‘I am Master Zhang,’ he says softly. ‘In future you will stand and bow when you see me.’
‘Why?’ I snap.
His right hand flickers and before I can react, his fingers are tightening round my throat. I slap at his arm and try to pull free, but he holds firm.
‘Because I will kill you if you do not,’ he says without changing tone.
‘Don’t . . . need . . . breath,’ I growl. ‘You . . . can’t . . . choke . . . me.’
‘No. But I can rip your head from your neck and dig into your brain. I could do it now. I would not even need to alter my
grip. Do you doubt that?’
I stare into his dark brown eyes – one of them is badly bloodshot – and shake my head stiffly.
‘Good,’ he says, releasing me. ‘That is a start. Now you will stand, bow and say my name.’
I want to tell him to get stuffed, but I’ve a feeling my head would be sent rolling across the floor before I got to the end of the insult. I don’t think this guy plays games, that he’s someone you can push to a certain point. You show him respect or he rips your apart, simple as that.
Pushing my chair back, I stand, bow and mutter as politely as I can, ‘Master Zhang.’
‘Good,’ he says again, then turns to face Carl. ‘You will bring her to me when you are finished here. I will test her.’
‘Yes, Master Zhang,’ Carl says, bowing again.
Zhang leaves without saying anything else. Once he’s gone, the Angels sit and conversation resumes as if we were never interrupted.
I rub my throat and glare at the others. ‘You could have warned me,’ I snarl.
Carl waves away my accusation. ‘We all have to go through that. Master Zhang likes to make his own introductions.’
‘Do you really think he would have ripped my head off?’ I ask.
‘If you were dumb enough to assume he was joking, yes,’ Carl says. ‘But so far nobody’s made that mistake. Even Shane knew better than to give Master Zhang any grief.’
‘I’d like to see him tear someone’s head off though,’ Shane says. He shoots me a quick look. ‘I was hoping you might talk back to him, just to see what he’d do.’
‘Good to know you have my back if things ever get ugly,’ I snarl. For a few seconds I consider walking out the door and leaving — in some ways this place is just as bad as the underground complex where I was held prisoner. But where would I go? Who could I turn to? Grumbling darkly, I sit down like the rest of them. ‘So that guy’s your mentor?’ I ask, recalling what Awnya said when she mentioned him.
‘Yes,’ Ashtat says. ‘He teaches us how to fight and fend for ourselves, so that we are ready for the missions on which we are sent.’
‘Just him?’
‘Yes. He is the only tutor we need.’
‘And the test he mentioned?’
Ashtat snickers. ‘Every Angel trains with Master Zhang, but some are deemed more worthy of his attention than others. He will take your measure when you spar with him. If he is impressed, you will train to join the likes of us on life-or-death missions.’
‘If you disappoint him,’ Carl says, ‘you’ll end up rooting through shops for supplies with the twins.’
‘Or mixing up brains with Ciara to put in the gruel,’ Shane giggles.
‘It’s time to find out if you’re a lion or a lamb,’ Ashtat says.
‘I’m no bloody lamb,’ I growl.
She purses her lips. ‘No, I do not think that you are.’ Then her expression softens and she adds hauntingly, ‘Although if you are cleared to come on missions with us, you might end up wishing that you were.’
FOURTEEN
When everyone’s had their fill, they stack up the bowls and leave them on the tables, then file out of the dining room. Carl tells me to accompany him to the gym for my test with Master Zhang. I expect the others to come with us, but they head off to do their own thing.
‘This won’t be the gladiatorial showdown of the year,’ Carl smirks, noting my disappointment.
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s not going to be some amazing duel, with you pushing Master Zhang all the way. The test for newbies is pretty boring. That’s why no one’s interested.’
‘Maybe I’ll surprise you,’ I grunt.
‘No,’ he says. ‘You won’t.’
Carl takes me by the swimming pool on our way. A couple of Angels are doing laps, moving faster than any Olympic swimmer, like a pair of sharks following a trail of blood.
‘Can you swim?’ Carl asks.
‘Yeah.’
‘You’re free to train here whenever you want,’ he says. ‘But make sure you plug up your nostrils and ears — water will lodge if you don’t. And keep your mouth firmly shut. Liquids slip down our throats easily enough, but they’re a real pain to get rid of. Trust me, unless you like wearing nappies, you don’t want to go sloshing around with a few litres of water inside you.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind.’
The gym is fairly standard, cross-trainers, rowing machines, weights and so on. Several Angels are working out, some under the gaze of Master Zhang, others by themselves.
Master Zhang ignores me for a few minutes, studying a girl as she performs a series of gymnastic routines in front of a dummy that must have been brought here from a shop. Each spin or twirl ends with a flick of a hand or foot to the dummy’s head or torso. She’s already chipped away at a lot of it, and keeps on tearing in, cracking it, knocking chunks loose, ignoring the cuts and nicks she’s picking up.
‘Keep going until there is nothing left to destroy,’ Master Zhang says to the girl, then strides for the door, nodding at Carl and me to follow.
He leads us to a bare room that looks like it was once a conference room for high-flying businessmen. Any chairs and tables have been removed, though there are still some whiteboards on the walls.
‘Each revitalised is different,’ Master Zhang says, wasting no time on chit-chat. ‘Our bodies react uniquely when we return to life. There are similarities common to all – extra strength and speed – but nobody can judge the extent of their abilities until they test themself. Physical build is not a factor. Some of us have great potential. Others do not.
‘We can fine-tune whatever skills we possess, but if you are found lacking at this stage, you will forever be limited by the restraints of your body. When you died, you lost the capacity to improve on what nature provided you with. In short, your response to today’s test will decide your role within the Angels for the next few thousand years. So I suggest you apply yourself as best you can.’
Master Zhang marches me to one end of the room, then tells me to make a standing jump. I crouch, tense the muscles in my legs, then spring forward like a frog. I hurtle almost two-thirds of the way across the room, far further than any human could have ever jumped. I’m delighted with myself, but when I look at Master Zhang, he makes a so-so gesture.
‘Carl,’ he says and Carl copies what I did, only he sails past me and bounces off the wall ahead of us.
‘Does that mean I’ve failed?’ I ask bitterly.
‘No,’ Master Zhang said. ‘It simply means that if someone is required to leap across a great distance – for instance, from the roof of one building to another – we will choose Carl or another like him.’
Next we step out into the corridor and I perform a running jump. I do better this time, although still nowhere near what Carl can do. Then Master Zhang times me racing up and down. He’s pleased with my speed. ‘Not the fastest by any means, but quicker than many.’
We step back into the room and Master Zhang tests my sense of balance by having me stand in a variety of uncomfortable positions and hold the pose as long as I can. Then he tests my reflexes by lobbing small, hard balls at me. Again he’s happy with my response, but far from overwhelmed.
We return to the gym and he tries me out with weights. I come up short on this one. Others are lifting weights around me and I can see that I don’t match up. I lift far more than I could have when I was alive, but ultimately I fall low down the pecking order.
‘Do not look so upset,’ Master Zhang says as I step away from the weights, feeling defeated. ‘I am by no means the strongest person here, but that has never worked against me. I taught myself how to deal with stronger opponents many years ago and my foes have yet to get the better of me.’
‘Have a lot of foes, do you?’ I laugh.
‘Yes,’ he says simply, not bothering to elaborate.
Then it’s back to the conference room, where Master Zhang has me face him. Carl watches from a spot near the door
, grinning eagerly.
‘This is the part you have probably been looking forward to,’ Master Zhang says. ‘I am going to test your sharpness and wit. I want you to try to hit me, first with your fists, then with your feet. You can use any move you wish, a punch, chop, slap, whatever.’
‘Shouldn’t we be in karate or boxing gear for this sort of thing?’ I ask.
‘No. We do not wear special clothes when we fight in the world outside, so why should we wear them here? I want to see how you will perform on the streets, where it matters.’
With a shrug, I eye up Master Zhang, then jab a fist at his nose. He shimmies and my fist whistles through thin air. I expected as much, and also guessed the way he would move, so even while he’s ducking, I’m bringing up my other fist to hit him from the opposite side.
Master Zhang grabs my arm and stops my fist short of its target.
‘Good,’ he says, releasing me. ‘Again.’
I spend the next ten minutes trying to strike him with my fists, then ten trying to hit him with my feet. I fare better with my feet than fists, connecting with his shoulders and midriff a number of times, and once – sweetly – with the side of his face. I don’t cause any damage but I can tell he’s impressed.
‘Rest a while,’ he says, taking a step back.
‘I didn’t think zombies needed rest.’
‘Even the living dead need rest,’ he says. ‘We are more enduring than we were in life, but our bodies do have limits. If we demand too much of ourselves, it affects our performance. We can struggle on indefinitely, sluggishly, but our battles need to be fought on our terms. It is not enough to be dogged. We must be incisive.’
‘Who do we fight?’ I ask. ‘Mr Dowling and his mutants? Reviveds? The army?’
‘Dr Oystein will answer your questions,’ Master Zhang says. ‘I am here merely to determine how useful you might be to us and to help you make the most of your talents.’
Master Zhang spends the next ten minutes throwing punches and kicks at me. I manage to duck or block many of them, but plenty penetrate and by the end of the session I’m stinging all over. But it’s a good kind of pain and I don’t mind.
