First Bites

by Darren Shan

  “Must you go?” I sob, clutching Dervish’s hands.

  “Yes,” he answers simply. “If I refused, he could bring his hordes of familiars through and destroy us all.”

  “How will I know… if you’re… successful?” I gulp.

  “As long as I’m fighting, I’ll be an emotionless shell here,” he says. “If I lose, that won’t change, and you’ll never know—I’ll simply die of old age. But if I win…” He winks. “Don’t worry—you’ll soon find out!”

  Dervish faces Lord Loss and the funnel. Takes a deep breath. Holds it. Lets it out nervously. “Remember, Grubbs,” he mutters. “Don’t give up on me. No matter how much time passes—even if it’s decades—there’s always hope.”

  “I’ll look after you,” I promise, weeping uncontrollably.

  “Your Mom and Dad would have been proud of you tonight,” Dervish says. “Gret too.”

  With that, he turns his back on me and marches to the funnel. Lord Loss bows politely as he approaches, then unfolds all eight of his arms and strikes for Dervish’s throat. Dervish ducks swiftly, avoiding the demon master’s lunge. “Uh-uh!” he laughs. “You won’t make that quick a finish of me!”

  Leaping over the demon, he grabs hold of a thick strand of web, spins around, hollering wildly, then disappears down the funnel, becoming a speck, then nothing.

  Lord Loss floats towards the opening. Glances back at me, eyes cold and hateful. “In the past, I’ve respected those who bested me,” he snarls. “But you belittled both the game and me. I will be keeping a close watch on you, Grubitsch Grady, and if you ever—”

  “My name’s Grubbs,” I grunt, cutting him short. I step forward, wiping tears from my face. “Now piss off back to your own world, you motherless scum, and save your threats for those who care.”

  For a moment it looks like he’s going to abandon protocol and rip me to shreds. But then he snarls, whirls away from me, and hurls himself into the funnel of webs. There’s a flash. The world turns red, then black. The webs fade. The funnel blinks out of existence. Walls and ceiling slowly return.

  It ends.

  THE CHANGE

  WORKING numbly. A quick trip to the house to fetch new candles. Then I sweep debris—broken chess boards and pieces—out of the way. Methodical. Chasing every last splinter and shard. Stacking them neatly against the walls. Need to keep active. Not dwelling on the game or the fight—or Dervish.

  His body rematerialized as reality returned. But only his body—not his mind. He stands by the wall to my left, vacant, unresponsive, eyes glazed over.

  Bill-E regains consciousness—and humanity—as I’m coming towards the end of my big cleanup. “Where am I?” he mutters. “What’s happening?” He stands shakily and stares at the bars of the cage. His voice rises fearfully. “What am I doing here? Where’s Dervish? What’s—”

  “It’s OK,” I shush him, fetching the key and unlocking the door. “Dervish is over by that wall. There’s no need to be afraid.”

  Bill-E stumbles out of the cage and glances nervously at the eerily motionless man in the candle-lit shadows. “What’s the story?” he asks. “The last thing I remember is following Dervish—then nothing.”

  I haven’t thought about what I’m going to tell Bill-E. So I say the first thing that comes into my head.

  “We were right—Dervish was a werewolf. He knocked you out and brought you here. I tracked him and fought with him. He recovered. He was grief-stricken when he realized what he’d done—the change had never affected him this way before. He gave me a book with a spell in it and told me to cast it.”

  “What sort of a spell?” Bill-E asks, edging closer to Dervish. “A calming spell,” I improvize. “He’d been saving it for an emergency. It stops him from turning into a werewolf—but it also robs him of his personality. He’s like a zombie now. He can’t speak or respond. I don’t know how long he’ll stay that way—maybe forever. But if he recovers, he’ll be safe. He won’t change again.”

  Bill-E waves a hand in front of his uncle’s eyes—Dervish doesn’t blink. He’s crying when he looks at me. “I didn’t want this!” he sobs. “I wanted to stop him from harming people, but not this way!”

  “There was no other solution, short of killing him,” I answer quietly. “Dervish had controlled the beast all these years, but it had grown stronger and was close to over-whelming him.”

  “And you don’t know how long he’ll be like this?” Bill-E asks.

  I shake my head. “A week. A year. A decade. There’s no telling.”

  Bill-E smiles weakly. “He must have really loved me to do this to himself,” he notes proudly. “Only a father would act this selflessly.”

  I start to tell Bill-E the truth—that Dervish is his uncle, my dad was his dad, I’m his brother—then stop. What would it achieve? If I told him, he’d have to come to terms with his real dad’s death and being an orphan. This way, he believes he’s not alone. I think it’s better to have a zombie for a father than no father at all.

  “Yeah,” I nod tiredly. “He was your dad. No doubt about it.” Stepping forward, I take hold of one of Dervish’s hands and press the other into Bill-E’s. “Now let’s get the hell out of here—this place gives me the creeps.”

  Days.

  Meera recovers the following afternoon. No memory loss or serious injury. I tell her the whole story while Bill-E’s at home with Ma and Pa Spleen. She weeps when she sees Dervish. Cradles his face. Calls his name. Scours his eyes for a trace of who he was.

  Nothing.

  Weeks.

  Lawyers. Social workers. Bankers.

  Meera goes through Dervish’s drawers with me. Sets the bureaucratic wheels in motion. My world becomes a flurry of legal papers and professional advice. Concerned officials kept at bay by Dervish’s lawyers. Regular inspections. Visits from doctors and welfare workers. Tests. Under observation. Having to prove myself capable of looking after both myself and my uncle.

  Dervish isn’t that difficult to care for. I lay out his clothes each night and dress him as soon as he wakes in the morning. He can go to the toilet himself, once I point him the right way. When I lead him down to breakfast, he sits and eats. After that he does whatever I tell him—rests, or exercises, or walks with me to the Vale to stock up on supplies and prove to everybody that he’s healthy and unharmed. He’s empty, distressingly so, and I have to spend a lot of time on him.

  But I can cope.

  Months.

  Autumn trundles round and I have to start school. Leaving Dervish alone in the house. I’m nervous the first few days, worrying about him, but when I realize he can’t come to harm, I relax and settle down.

  I sit next to Bill-E in most classes. (I’ve had to repeat a year, to make up for all the work I missed.) We get on better than ever. Occasionally he’ll make mention of that night in the forest and cellar, but I always change the conversation quickly—I have no wish to dwell on such matters.

  I enjoy school, and making friends—even homework! This is reality, the normal, dull, everyday world. It’s great to be back.

  A year.

  I grow four inches. Broaden. I was always large for my age—now I’m positively massive. And still growing! Bill-E calls me the Impeccable Hulk, and refers to the two of us as Little and Large.

  He spends a lot of weekends with Dervish and me, watching DVDs and MTV. He says we should hold a party and invite some girls over—says we could act like lords in a castle. Talks of getting a monocle for his lazy left eye and crowning himself King Bill-E the First. I just smile and say nothing when he starts up with fantasy stuff like that. Of course I’m interested in girls, but I’m not ready for dating yet. One step at a time. The demons were scary, but girls—well, girls are really terrifying!

  Dervish hasn’t changed. As lifeless as ever, eyes blank, never smiling or frowning, laughing or crying. I talk to him all the time, telling him about school, discussing TV shows, running math problems by him. He never shows any sign that he underst
ands, but it’s comforting to treat him like an ordinary person. And maybe, somewhere far away, in the midst of bloody battle, he hears—and perhaps it helps.

  I take him to the barber’s once a month, to have his hair and beard cut. Buy new clothes for him every so often. Experiment with various brands of deodorant. Keep him respectable and in shape, so if he ever does return, he won’t have cause for complaint.

  Meera drops by every few weeks or so. Keeps an eye on us. Drives me outside the Vale to hit the bigger stores. I tell her what Dervish said, about not leaving Carcery Vale, but she says it’s OK as long as she’s with me. But we’re careful not to linger, always back a couple of hours before the sun sets—demons are more powerful in this world at night. She usually sleeps over when she comes. Bill-E jokes about it and says we’re having an affair. I wish!

  I often dream of Lord Loss and his familiars. I worry about his threat and what he’ll do to me if he ever gets the chance. I block the entrances to the secret cellar with thick planks and dozens of nails. Avoid Dervish’s study as much as possible, for fear I’d find a book about Lord Loss, which might somehow allow him to latch onto me and break through Dervish’s magic defences.

  But even more than the demon master, I worry about changing. Every time a full moon comes I sleep nervously—if at all—tossing and turning, imagining the worst, checking under my nails first thing in the morning, examining my teeth and eyes in the mirror.

  I’ve memorized the names and numbers of the Lambs—the Grady executioners. If I have to call them one day, I pray that I have the strength to do it.

  The morning after a full moon. Fourteen months since my battle with Lord Loss. A crisp, sun-crowned morning. Stretching. Yawning. Thinking about school. Also about a girl—Reni Gossel. I like Reni. Very cute. And she’s been giving me the sort of looks that make me think she maybe thinks I’m cute too. Wondering if it’s time to hold that party Bill-E’s been pressing for.

  My cheeks feel sticky. Curious, I rub a few fingers over them. They come away wet—and red!

  My head flares. Heart pounds. Stomach clenches. Thoughts of school and Reni forgotten. I fall out of bed. Desperately check under my nails—dirty with earth and blood. Hairs stuck to my hands and around my mouth.

  Moaning. Slapping off the hairs.

  I reel out of the room and down the stairs, almost falling and breaking my neck. Head spinning. Lights exploding within my brain. Vomit rising in my throat. Telephone numbers flash across my eyes. “And the wolf shall lie down with the lamb.”

  Into the kitchen. Dervish is sitting at the table, slowly spooning corn flakes into his mouth. I turn in circles, wringing my hands, tearing at my hair. My eyes fix on the telephone hanging from the wall. I stop panicking. Calm falls on me like a sudden cold rainfall. I know what I must do. Best to do it now, as soon as possible, before I lose my nerve. Call the executioners. Give myself over to the Lambs. Arrange for others to take care of Dervish. Bid this world farewell.

  I start towards the phone, resigned to my fate.

  A solemn voice behind me—“Grubbs.”

  I turn slowly, reluctantly, for some reason expecting to see Lord Loss. But there’s only Dervish. He’s holding up a tin of red paint, a small pot of dirt, and a ratty woollen scarf that has been ripped into hairy fragments.

  “The look on your face!” my uncle says.

  And grins.

  There are many more terrifying tales in The Demonata—read them all!

  Lord Loss (Book 1)

  Demon Thief (Book 2)

  Slawter (Book 3)

  Bec (Book 4)

  Blood Beast (Book 5)

  Demon Apocalypse (Book 6)

  Death’s Shadow (Book 7)

  Wolf Island (Book 8)

  Dark Calling (Book 9)

  Hell’s Heroes (Book 10)

  Please turn this page for a preview of Zom-B

  ONE

  NOW…

  Zombies, my arse! I’ve got a real problem on my hands. Dad’s been drinking and I can tell by his beady eyes that he’s close to tipping over the edge.

  We’ve been watching the news, a report about the alleged zombie attack in Ireland. Dad takes a swig of beer, then snorts and switches channels.

  “I was watching that,” Mum complains.

  “You’re not anymore,” Dad grunts.

  “But it’s important,” Mum presses. “They might attack here. We need to know what to do, Todd.”

  “B knows what to do, don’t you?” Dad says, winking at me, and it’s a relief to see he’s still at the stage where he can crack a joke.

  “Of course,” I grin. “Put my head between my legs and kiss my arse good-bye!”

  We crack up laughing. Mum tuts and makes a face. She doesn’t like it when we swear. She thinks foul language is a sign of ill breeding. I don’t know how she ended up with Dad—he could swear for a living.

  “Don’t be silly, Daisy,” Dad says. “It’s all a con. Zombies? The dead returning to life to feast on the living? Give me a break.”

  “But it’s on the news,” Mum says. “They showed pictures.”

  “They can do anything with computers these days,” Dad says. “I bet B could knock up something just as realistic on our laptop. Am I right, B?”

  “Dead on,” I nod. “With a few apps, I could out-zombie George Romero.”

  “Who’s that?” Mum frowns.

  “The president of South Africa,” Dad says seriously and we both howl at her bewildered expression.

  “It’s all very well for the pair of you to laugh like hyenas,” Mum snaps, face reddening. “But what happens if zombies attack us here? You won’t be laughing if they kill me and B.”

  “I’ll happily chuck you to them if you keep on moaning,” Dad says, and there’s an edge to his voice now, one I’m all too familiar with.

  Dad stares at Mum, his eyes hard. I tense, waiting for him to roar, or maybe just throw a punch at her without warning. If he does, I’ll hurl myself at him, the way I have countless times in the past. I love him, but I love Mum too, and I can never stand by and let him lay into her. The trouble is, there’s not much I can do to stop him. We could both be in for some serious battering tonight.

  But instead, after a dangerous pause, Dad smirks and switches back to the news. That’s Dad all over—unpredictable as the weather.

  I scratch the back of my head–I had it shaved tight over the weekend and it’s always itchy for a few days when I do that–and watch the footage from Ireland. It’s a helicopter shot. They’re flying over Pallaskenry, the small village where zombies apparently ran wild on Sunday.

  The village is in ruins. Buildings are being burned to the ground by soldiers with cool-looking flamethrowers. Corpses all over the place. At least they look like corpses. Dad reckons they’re dummies. “That’s a waste of good ketchup,” he said when Mum challenged him about the blood.

  “I mean,” Dad says as we watch, “if it had happened in London, fair enough, I might believe it. But bloody Ireland? It’s one of their Paddy jokes. There was an Englishman, an Irishman and a zombie…”

  “But they’ve shown dead people,” Mum persists. “They’ve interviewed some of the survivors who got out.”

  “Never heard of actors?” Dad says witheringly, then turns to me. “You don’t buy any of this, do you?”

  “Not a word.” I point at the TV. They’re showing a clip that’s already passed into legend on YouTube. One of the zombies is biting into a woman’s head. He’s a guy in pajamas. His eyes are crazy and he’s covered in blood, but apart from that you wouldn’t look at him twice in a crowd. The woman screams as he chews off a chunk of her skull and digs his fingers into her brain. As he pulls out a handful and stuffs it into his mouth, the camera pans away and, if you listen closely, you can hear the cameraman vomiting.

  The clip had gone viral on the Web by Monday morning, but they first showed it on TV that evening. There was an uproar the next day, papers saying it shouldn’t have been aired, people
getting their knickers in a right old twist. It gave me a fright when I first saw it. Dad too, even if he won’t admit it. Now it’s just a bit of fun. Like when you see a horror film more than once—scary the first time, but the more you watch it, the lamer it gets.

  “He should have dipped that bit of brain in curry sauce,” I joke.

  “B!” Mum gasps. “Don’t joke about it!”

  “Why not?” I retort. “None of it’s real. I reckon it’s a trailer for a new movie. You wait, another few days and they’ll admit it was a publicity stunt. Anyone who fell for it will look a right idiot, won’t they?”

  “But the police and soldiers…” On the TV, a tank fires at a church, blasting holes out of the walls, exposing zombies who were sheltering inside—these guys are like vampires, they don’t come out much in the day.

  “They’re part of the campaign,” I insist. “They’ve been paid to go along with the act.”

  Mum frowns. “Surely they’d get in trouble if they lied to the public like that.”

  “Trouble’s like a bad stink,” Dad says. “Throw enough money at it and nobody cares. Any lawyers who go after these guys will be given a big fat check and that’ll be the end of that.”

  “I dunno,” Mum says, shaking her head. “They’re talking about a curfew here.”

  “Course they are,” Dad sneers, knocking back another slug of beer. “The government would love that. Get everyone off the streets, terrify us into holing up like rats. It’d leave them free to do whatever they wanted at night. They’d ship in more immigrants while we weren’t watching. That might be what the whole thing’s about, a plot to make us look away while they sneak in a load of scabs who’ll work for peanuts and steal our jobs.”

  Mum looks dubious. “You can’t be serious, Todd.”