skateboards, rolling down ramps, grinding along bars, slamming into the graffiti-covered walls.
The skateboarding zombies are nowhere near as graceful as they must have been in life. They fall often, clumsily, their hands and faces covered in scars, and they don’t try any sophisticated jumps or moves. But it’s still a strangely uplifting sight, and I start to clap stiffly, feeling somebody should applaud their efforts.
When they hear me clapping, the zombies instantly lose interest in their boards. The teenagers growl with hungry excitement and dart towards me, flexing their fingers, sniffing the air, thinking supper has come early.
They can’t see the hole in my chest, and I’m too tired to push myself upright, so I wave a weary hand in the air and they spot the bones sticking out of my fingertips. With some disappointed grunting sounds, they return to their patch, pick up the skateboards and start listlessly rolling around again, killing time until it’s night and they can set out in search of brains.
I watch the show for a few minutes, then make myself puke again and more water comes up. For once I’m glad I don’t have functioning taste buds — the water of the Thames was never the most inviting, but it’s worse than ever these days, stained with the juices and rotting remains of the bodies you often see bobbing along.
I’m still trembling with shock. My head is throbbing. I think several of my ribs are broken. My left eyelid is almost fully shut now and won’t respond to my commands. The fingers of both hands began to shake wildly when I stopped clapping and are spasming out of control.
I want to find Rage and rip his throat open, but in my sorry state I can’t go anywhere at the moment. I just have to sit here, suffer pitifully and hope that I recover.
After a while, the clouds part. The sunlight stings my flesh and hurts my eyes, but helps dry me off. The warmth revives me slightly and the shakes begin to subside. When my hands are my own again, I roll on to my front, groaning, wishing the fall had put me out of my misery. I lie on the pavement like a dead fish, steam rising from my clothes, feeling sorry for myself, plotting my revenge on Rage.
A shadow falls across me. I look up through my right eye and spot a familiar face. Speak of the Devil …
‘Have you clocked that lot?’ Rage mutters, staring at the skateboarding teenagers.
‘You’re dead,’ I gurgle.
‘Aren’t we all?’ he laughs, squatting beside me. ‘I half-hoped the fall would knock your brains out.’
‘Only half?’ I wheeze.
‘Yeah. Despite what you think, I don’t enjoy killing. I do it when necessary and don’t worry about it, but I never wanted to become a serial killer. I’m not out to break any records on that front.’
‘So why did you push me off?’ I snarl, sitting up and shaking my head to get rid of the water in my ears.
‘Making a point,’ he says. ‘I got sick of watching you mope around. Decided you needed a good, hard kick up the arse.’ Rage stands and starts rolling his arms again, still aching from the climb. ‘Dr Oystein would have done all he could to save you up there. If I’d told him what I was planning, he would have thrown himself between us and stood up for you. He’s not like me. He doesn’t think you’re worthless scum.’
‘That’s your opinion of me?’ I bristle.
Rage shrugs. ‘It’s my opinion of us all. I neverthought people were anything special. A grim, brutal, boring lot. You got the occasional interesting person, like those skateboarders over there — still cool, even in death. But most of us were only good for breeding, fighting and screwing up the planet.’
‘You’re some piece of work,’ I snort.
‘Just being honest,’ he smiles. ‘I’m a lot of bad things but I’m not a hypocrite. I always saw people for what they were, and I never thought that was very much. Dr Oystein, on the other hand, sees the good stuff where I see the bad. He wants to
The skateboarding zombies are nowhere near as graceful as they must have been in life. They fall often, clumsily, their hands and faces covered in scars, and they don’t try any sophisticated jumps or moves. But it’s still a strangely uplifting sight, and I start to clap stiffly, feeling somebody should applaud their efforts.
When they hear me clapping, the zombies instantly lose interest in their boards. The teenagers growl with hungry excitement and dart towards me, flexing their fingers, sniffing the air, thinking supper has come early.
They can’t see the hole in my chest, and I’m too tired to push myself upright, so I wave a weary hand in the air and they spot the bones sticking out of my fingertips. With some disappointed grunting sounds, they return to their patch, pick up the skateboards and start listlessly rolling around again, killing time until it’s night and they can set out in search of brains.
I watch the show for a few minutes, then make myself puke again and more water comes up. For once I’m glad I don’t have functioning taste buds — the water of the Thames was never the most inviting, but it’s worse than ever these days, stained with the juices and rotting remains of the bodies you often see bobbing along.
I’m still trembling with shock. My head is throbbing. I think several of my ribs are broken. My left eyelid is almost fully shut now and won’t respond to my commands. The fingers of both hands began to shake wildly when I stopped clapping and are spasming out of control.
I want to find Rage and rip his throat open, but in my sorry state I can’t go anywhere at the moment. I just have to sit here, suffer pitifully and hope that I recover.
After a while, the clouds part. The sunlight stings my flesh and hurts my eyes, but helps dry me off. The warmth revives me slightly and the shakes begin to subside. When my hands are my own again, I roll on to my front, groaning, wishing the fall had put me out of my misery. I lie on the pavement like a dead fish, steam rising from my clothes, feeling sorry for myself, plotting my revenge on Rage.
A shadow falls across me. I look up through my right eye and spot a familiar face. Speak of the Devil …
‘Have you clocked that lot?’ Rage mutters, staring at the skateboarding teenagers.
‘You’re dead,’ I gurgle.
‘Aren’t we all?’ he laughs, squatting beside me. ‘I half-hoped the fall would knock your brains out.’
‘Only half?’ I wheeze.
‘Yeah. Despite what you think, I don’t enjoy killing. I do it when necessary and don’t worry about it, but I never wanted to become a serial killer. I’m not out to break any records on that front.’
‘So why did you push me off?’ I snarl, sitting up and shaking my head to get rid of the water in my ears.
‘Making a point,’ he says. ‘I got sick of watching you mope around. Decided you needed a good, hard kick up the arse.’ Rage stands and starts rolling his arms again, still aching from the climb. ‘Dr Oystein would have done all he could to save you up there. If I’d told him what I was planning, he would have thrown himself between us and stood up for you. He’s not like me. He doesn’t think you’re worthless scum.’
‘That’s your opinion of me?’ I bristle.
Rage shrugs. ‘It’s my opinion of us all. I neverthought people were anything special. A grim, brutal, boring lot. You got the occasional interesting person, like those skateboarders over there — still cool, even in death. But most of us were only good for breeding, fighting and screwing up the planet.’
‘You’re some piece of work,’ I snort.
‘Just being honest,’ he smiles. ‘I’m a lot of bad things but I’m not a hypocrite. I always saw people for what they were, and I never thought that was very much. Dr Oystein, on the other hand, sees the good stuff where I see the bad. He wants to
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