by Darren Shan
So, putting her gun away, Cat raced for the door. She nearly didn’t make it–the zombies up the side street almost beat her to the punch–but she swung in just ahead of her savage hunters. Grabbing hold of the heavy door, she heaved with all her strength and it began to swing shut.
One of the zombies got to the door before it could close and slipped a hand through the gap. The door jammed on the foul creature’s forearm. If Cat had hesitated, the others would have been able to slide their own hands in and force the door open, and the game would have been lost.
But it had been a long time since Cat Ward hesitated. Sliding free a knife, she lashed out at the hand and cut it clean off at the wrist. The fingers twitched wildly as the hand dropped. Cat kicked the hand away–the kick would have drawn admiring comments if she’d done it on the field in the old days–then slammed the door shut. There were several bolts, and she slotted them all home, one after another, in rapid succession, like a machine.
She heard the zombies howling and thumping on the door, but it held, and as she stepped back from it, shivering and gasping, she realized with surprise and delight that she had made it. They couldn’t get to her now. She was safe.
Cat whooped and punched the air. She couldn’t believe it. That had been so close. For a second there she was sure that she was doomed.
Then a whistle sounded in the corridor behind her, and as Cat fell silent again and slowly turned to face the gloom of the unknown, she had to concede to herself that maybe she had celebrated too soon.
All of the zombies appeared to be locked outside the stadium.
But what was locked inside here with her?
TEN
Cat lowered her mask and nearly called out, “Hello?” But that would have given her away. She figured there was a very good chance that the person with the whistle already knew that she was here, but it would be foolish to draw attention to herself, just in case the person was unaware of her presence.
She told herself that she might be worrying about nothing. Maybe this place was packed with living soldiers, waiting to rain down hell on the zombies outside the stadium. They’d be surprised when they saw her. She’d tell them her story and they’d commend her on her narrow escape, invite her to leave with them when they departed.
But that bad feeling was back. Her scalp was itching like crazy. This felt wrong on every level. She had no idea what was waiting for her up ahead, but she was almost a hundred percent positive that it wasn’t a squad of soldiers.
Cat stood there for a while, listening to the zombies pound on the door, getting her breath back, recovering her poise. She cleaned the knife automatically and put it away. She thought about drawing the gun again but she didn’t want to provoke an attack—if there were soldiers here, and they saw someone advancing with a gun, they might open fire defensively. Better to advance unarmed until she knew what she was dealing with.
When Cat was back to normal, she looked around. Her eyes had adjusted to the gloom but there wasn’t much to see, just the concrete walls of the corridor. There were lights overhead but they were switched off.
The tunnel ran straight ahead of her, then turned to the right. Cat took a deep breath and walked to the turning. She stuck her head around the corner slowly, not sure what to expect. But all she found was another stretch of corridor.
Cat glanced back longingly at the door. She almost wanted to open it and throw herself into the arms of the zombies. At least she knew what would happen to her if she did that.
But suicide was not an option for the determined Cat Ward. And her imagination would only run riot if she sat here and waited—in her experience, there were no horrors any worse than the ones you could dream up inside your own head when you were scared and had too much time to think.
So, with another deep breath, Cat turned the corner and set off deeper into the heart of the stadium, surrendering herself to the mysterious, menacing vagaries of the maze.
ELEVEN
The corridor kept twisting and turning. She came to a variety of junctions. A small arrow had been scratched into one of the walls at each juncture, indicating the way forward. The arrows did nothing to make Cat feel any calmer—if anything, they set her nerves even more on edge. She thought about ignoring them and taking the opposite direction, but then she might get lost. At least if she followed the path of the arrows, she could easily backtrack at any point.
She passed several doors that were locked, but the handle of one finally turned when she tried it.
Cat paused. What if there was a team of zombie soccer players behind the door? Maybe the players had been turned and ended up trapped in a changing room. The whistle she’d heard might have been an undead referee blowing for the start of a match. If she opened this, a team of hungry soccer players might storm out, cut her head open, tuck into her brain, then head on out to the field for a game that would never kick off.
“The hell with it,” Cat muttered with a shaky grin. “It was always my dream to end up in the arms of a professional soccer star with loads of money.”
She pushed the door open and braced herself for the rush.
Nothing happened.
After a few seconds Cat stepped forward. There was a light switch on the wall. When she tried it, the light overhead flickered on, revealing a bare, dusty room. There were a few cleats here and there, some bandages, an old, crusty towel. But no soccer players, alive or undead.
Cat turned off the light–energy conscious even in these chaotic times–and carried on along the corridor. She came to a few more doors, some of which were open, but the rooms were all as empty as the first one had been.
She spotted a whistle on the floor of one room and stared at it suspiciously. There was no way to tell if this was an ancient piece of equipment or if it was the whistle that had lured her into this place. She bent over to pick it up, meaning to try it, then stopped with her fingers outstretched. If the whistle had been blown by a zombie, its germs would be smeared across the mouthpiece. If she put it to her lips, she’d be infected immediately and would turn into one of the brain-hungry monsters within a minute or two.
Cat scowled and withdrew her hand. She needed to be more careful. She had almost walked straight into potential disaster. That wasn’t like her. She was obviously more spooked than she had admitted.
Stepping back out into the corridor, Cat gave herself a few moments to breathe and relax. “Come on,” she whispered. “You’ve faced worse than this. Don’t lose your nerve now. Whatever’s going on, you can deal with it.”
The little pep talk worked and she walked more steadily after that. She ignored the rest of the doors that she came to, marching with a purpose now, determined to get to the field and find out what was waiting for her there.
She arrived at the tunnel opening a few minutes later. Daylight was streaming through it, a welcome sight after the dimness of the corridors. Cat felt like running out into it, but she didn’t. Composure was the key here.
Edging forward, she moved to the side, keeping to the shadows. She was expecting zombies or soldiers, but as she came to the mouth of the tunnel and caught sight of the field, her jaw dropped. She stood there in disbelief, then stepped out in a daze and said very softly, with no idea that she was speaking, “No bloody way!”
TWELVE
A massive circus tent had been erected in the middle of the field. An old-style big top, a mix of red and yellow stripes. There were four peaks in the billowing roof, a big flag flying from each, bunting running from the spikes to the ground.
There was a large, framed entrance. An awning swept down over it and there was a painted sign above that. As Cat stumbled forward, hardly able to believe her eyes, the text on the sign came into focus.
MR. DOWLING’S EMPORIUM OF WONDERS
The words meant nothing to Cat, but they made her shiver regardless, because she could see now that they had been painted with blood.
Fresh blood, still dripping slowly down the canvas.
There
was a low, steady growling noise behind her. It had been there all along and Cat had mistaken it for a natural hum, an electrical generator or something like that. But as Cat paused and stared at the sign, she realized this was like no other hum she had ever heard.
With a horrible, sick feeling, Cat forced herself to turn and look at the rest of the stadium. She’d assumed it would be abandoned, but to her shock and dismay she saw that every seat was taken.
By a zombie.
Cat’s head spun. She had no idea how many people the stadium could hold, but figured it must be at least thirty or forty thousand. She couldn’t see an empty seat anywhere she looked. Every single one was occupied by a member of the living dead, men, women and children. She’d never seen so many zombies in one place before. And they were all sitting still, just growling and staring… at her.
Cat didn’t know how so many had gathered together, or why they were seated like that. All she knew was that she had to get out of here, and quick.
Cat took a frantic step back towards the mouth of the tunnel. As soon as she did that, every zombie leapt to its feet. There was an audible crack in the air as they all stood at the same time and glared. The noise of the growling rose sharply.
Cat gulped and stepped away from the tunnel. The zombies slowly sank back into their seats, the growl settling into its low rhythm again.
Cat started to cry. It had been a long time since she’d shed tears, but this had shaken her like nothing else. It wasn’t just the fact that there were so many of them and that they could surge forward and take her in the blink of an eye. It was the way they were behaving. Zombies didn’t act like this. Something was wrong here, wrong in a way that nothing had ever been wrong for Cat before.
For a few minutes she could only stand there, sobbing, wanting to run but too afraid to move.
But because Cat was made of stern stuff, she eventually wiped away the tears and took stock. The zombies were still sitting and watching her. She could see that some of them were drooling, licking their lips at the thought of digging into her fresh, hot brain. But for some reason they held back.
Cat didn’t know what was going on, but she knew the only way was forward, into the tent. If she tried to retreat, the living dead would attack. She hated playing into the hands of whoever it was that had set this up, but she had no option. Nobody could argue with tens of thousands of zombies.
Turning her back on the stands, shivering uncontrollably, Cat Ward faced the big top and read the ominous sign again. She had no idea who Mr. Dowling was, or what might be stored in his emporium of wonders.
But she knew she was about to find out.
Sniffing miserably, wiping the last of the tears away, Cat lowered her head, took the deepest, shakiest breath of her life, and started forward into the gigantic, hellish red and yellow tent.
THIRTEEN
There was a noticeable drop in temperature as soon as Cat stepped beneath the awning. She stopped there for a while, peering ahead. There were drapes ahead of her, so she couldn’t see past the entrance. She thought about waiting here, but what good would that achieve? The zombies weren’t going to leave, and it wasn’t like she could slip off during the night when they were asleep—the undead had no need for sleep, and the hours of the night were theirs.
As Cat hesitated, torn between advancing and turning back to try to make a break for the tunnel, the drapes suddenly parted and a man stepped through.
“Come on,” the man snapped. “We don’t have all day. It doesn’t pay to keep Mr. Dowling waiting.”
Cat gaped at the man. He was like nobody she had ever seen, not even the decaying zombies. His skin was a mess, purple in places, covered with pus-filled sores. In some areas strips of it were peeling away. He had limp gray hair and eerie yellow eyes. Some of his teeth were missing and the rest were black and rotting. Cat could smell the stench of his breath even this far away. He was wearing a ratty hoodie, but the hood was pushed back to reveal his face.
“What’s the matter?” the man smirked. “Never seen a mutant before?”
“What… are you?” Cat croaked.
“The last person you’ll ever see if you don’t get a move on,” he huffed. When Cat just shook her head and stared wide-eyed, he sighed impatiently. “The name’s Kinslow. I’m your usher for the day. Come with me and I’ll show you to your seat.”
“Seat?” Cat echoed weakly, looking back at the zombies in the stands.
“Not up there,” Kinslow chuckled. “This is a seat inside. Come on,” he said again, leaning forward this time and extending a hand to her. “You don’t want to miss the show, do you?”
“Are you infectious?” Cat asked, eyeing the hand uneasily.
“No,” Kinslow said. “You’re perfectly safe with me.”
Cat licked her lips, started to stretch out a hand, stopped. “I want to go home,” she whimpered.
“I know,” Kinslow said kindly. Then his features hardened. “But this isn’t a time for going home. It’s a time for doing what Mr. Dowling tells you to do. And he wants you to come see the show.”
“Who is he?” Cat wheezed. “What does he want with me? How did you get the zombies to chase me here? You did, didn’t you? You controlled them with the whistles and had them chase me up the High Road.”
“Not me personally,” Kinslow said. “But people like me, yeah.” He snapped his fingers. “You’ll find more answers inside, but I’m not gonna wait for you forever. Come with me now or I’ll leave you here for the zombies.”
Cat shuddered, then steeled herself and took Kinslow’s hand. He tutted when he realized she was wearing gloves, and quickly peeled them off. Cat didn’t protest as he tossed them away before taking her hand again. His palm was warmer than she had anticipated, sticky with dried pus.
“Will I be OK in there?” she asked as he led her forward and pushed aside the drapes.
“With Mr. Dowling to look after you?” Kinslow replied with a friendly purr. He shook his head and the purr turned into a wicked cackle. “I doubt it!”
FOURTEEN
It looked for the most part like a normal circus. A sawdust-strewn ring in the center, encircled by a low barrier and surrounded by rows of seats, a couple of trapezes and a high wire overhead.
But there were no normal people in the capacity crowd, no excited children with cotton candy and balloons, no bored dads or chatting mums. Instead the seats were filled with mutants like Kinslow and nightmarish babies.
Cat had expected the mutants–Kinslow had told her outside that there were others like him–but the babies caught her off-guard. They all looked the same and were dressed in similar white gowns. They had large eyes that were entirely white, and sharp little fangs that flashed when they smiled or scowled.
The babies were sitting up like adults, hands on their knees, watching a clown cavort in the ring. They didn’t applaud or laugh at his antics, but made soft cooing noises. If Cat had shut her eyes, she could almost have believed that she was in an aviary.
Kinslow led Cat forward to a throne by the ringside. The throne didn’t belong here. It must have been stolen from a palace. It was huge and ornate, layered in gold, studded with diamonds. It made a big impression on Cat, even in the midst of her terror and confusion, and she wondered how much such an elaborate chair would have cost in the old days.
“It’s not to my taste, but Mr. Dowling loves a bit of bling,” Kinslow grinned.
Cat didn’t reply. She was still staring round the tent at the babies and mutants. Her legs felt weak and she had begun to hope that she was dreaming. She’d become accustomed to the world of zombies but this was a whole new realm. Perhaps it was all nothing more than a freakish nightmare.
“Are you real?” Cat whispered, the question going out not just to Kinslow but to his fellow mutants and the scores of cooing babies.
“As real as anything in this crazy, mixed-up world,” Kinslow laughed. “Do you want me to pinch you to prove it?” He was still holding Cat’s hand, and now
he squeezed sharply, causing her to cry out with pain and jerk her fingers free.
“Don’t do that again,” Cat snapped as he reached for her.
“Or what?” Kinslow smirked.
“Or I’ll draw my sword and chop your ugly head off.”
Kinslow pursed his lips, impressed by the threat. “You’d pay for it if you harmed me,” he told her.
“Sure,” she sneered, forgetting her fear for a moment. “But that wouldn’t do you any good, would it? Beheading won’t stop a zombie, but I think it would mean the end of the likes of you.”
Kinslow nodded somberly. Then he smiled again. “You’re a gutsy woman, Miss Ward. That’s why you’re here. Mr. Dowling admires ruthless determination. He wants to give you a chance to shine.”
“Who is this Mr. Dowling?” Cat growled. “Where is he?”
“Why, I thought you already knew,” Kinslow said. “He’s right there.”
Kinslow pointed to the clown in the circus ring, and as Cat’s eyes settled on the strange performer, she quickly realized that the zombies, mutants and babies were small fry on the weirdness scale when compared with the brain-chillingly macabre ringmaster at the heart of the insane show.
FIFTEEN
Mr. Dowling was wearing a pinstriped suit inlaid with colorful patches. A severed face dangled from either shoulder. Guts were wrapped around his arms like snakes, while ears were pinned to the legs of his trousers. He wore large red shoes and a tiny skull was attached to the end of each. Cat wasn’t sure if the skulls had come from babies like those in the audience or from human infants.
The clown’s wild hair was a collection of strands that had been harvested from the heads of various people and stapled into his scalp. He had painted his face white and his lips a dark blue color. The flesh had been carved away around his eyes and filled in with soot, while v-shaped channels had been cut out of his cheeks and the bone beneath dyed pink.
