aim for, there’s no need to rush. I’m itching like mad from the daylight but that doesn’t deter me. I figure it’s no more than a loser like me deserves. I don’t even stop to pick up a pair of sunglasses or a hat.
I only pause when I reach Borough High Street. Borough Market is just up the road. That was one of London’s most famous food markets. Mum dragged me round it once, to check it out. She decided it wasn’t any better than our local markets, and a lot more expensive, so she never came back.
I’m sure the food stocks have long since rotted, and even if they haven’t, food is of no interest to me these days. But most of Borough Market was a dark, dingy place, built beneath railway viaducts. I bet the area is packed with zombies.
Ever since I revitalised, I’ve looked for a home among the conscious. Maybe that’s where I’ve gone wrong. I might fit in better with the spaced-out walking dead.
I turn left and shuffle along. As I guessed, the oldmarket is thronged with zombies, resting up to avoid the irritating light of the day world. I nudge in among them, drawing sharp, hungry stares. I rip a hole in the front of my T-shirt to expose the gaping cavity where my heart used to be. When they realise I’m one of their own, they leave me be.
All of the shops are occupied but I find a vacant spot in a street stall. There are a few rips in its canvas roof, through which old rainwater drips, but it’s dry and shaded enough for me. There are even some sacks nearby which I shake out and fashion into a rough bed.
When I’m as comfortable as I can get, I take off my clothes and toss them away. No point leaving them out to dry — I can easily pick up replacements later. It doesn’t matter to me that I’m lying here naked. The zombies aren’t watching and there’s nobody else around. Hell, maybe I won’t bother with clothes again. I don’t really need them in my current state, except to protect me from the sun when I go out in the daytime. But if I stick to the night world as my new comrades do …
Dusk falls and the zombies stir. I head out with them to explore the city, interested to see where they go, how much ground they cover. I hunted with reviveds when I first left the shelter of the underground complex, but I never spent a huge amount of time in their company. I’d follow a pack until we found brains or, if they didn’t seem to know what they were doing, I abandoned them and searched for another group.
Some of the zombies peel off on their own, but most stay in packs, usually no more than seven or eight per cluster. Hard to tell if they’re grouped randomly or if these are old friends or family members, united in death as they were in life. They don’t take much notice of one another – no hugging or fond looks – unless they communicate in ways that I’m not able to understand.
There’s a woman in a wheelchair in one of the packs. Curious to see how she fares, I pick that one and stick with it for the whole night, trailing them round the streets of Borough and the surrounding area.
The zombie in the wheelchair has no problem keeping up with the others. Like the skateboarding teenagers, she remembers on some deep, subconscious level how she operated when alive.
They don’t seem to be moving in any specific direction though, taking corners without pausing to think, circling back on themselves without realising it, covering the same ground again. Their heads are constantly twitching as they stare into the shadows, sniff the air and listen for shuffling sounds which might signify life.
Rats are all over the place, foraging for food. They clearly don’t consider the zombies much of a threat. And from what I see, they’re right not to. One member of the pack catches a couple of rodents which were rooting around inside the carcass of a dog. He bites the head off each and chews them with relish. But those are the only successes of the night. The other zombies spend a lot of time
I only pause when I reach Borough High Street. Borough Market is just up the road. That was one of London’s most famous food markets. Mum dragged me round it once, to check it out. She decided it wasn’t any better than our local markets, and a lot more expensive, so she never came back.
I’m sure the food stocks have long since rotted, and even if they haven’t, food is of no interest to me these days. But most of Borough Market was a dark, dingy place, built beneath railway viaducts. I bet the area is packed with zombies.
Ever since I revitalised, I’ve looked for a home among the conscious. Maybe that’s where I’ve gone wrong. I might fit in better with the spaced-out walking dead.
I turn left and shuffle along. As I guessed, the oldmarket is thronged with zombies, resting up to avoid the irritating light of the day world. I nudge in among them, drawing sharp, hungry stares. I rip a hole in the front of my T-shirt to expose the gaping cavity where my heart used to be. When they realise I’m one of their own, they leave me be.
All of the shops are occupied but I find a vacant spot in a street stall. There are a few rips in its canvas roof, through which old rainwater drips, but it’s dry and shaded enough for me. There are even some sacks nearby which I shake out and fashion into a rough bed.
When I’m as comfortable as I can get, I take off my clothes and toss them away. No point leaving them out to dry — I can easily pick up replacements later. It doesn’t matter to me that I’m lying here naked. The zombies aren’t watching and there’s nobody else around. Hell, maybe I won’t bother with clothes again. I don’t really need them in my current state, except to protect me from the sun when I go out in the daytime. But if I stick to the night world as my new comrades do …
Dusk falls and the zombies stir. I head out with them to explore the city, interested to see where they go, how much ground they cover. I hunted with reviveds when I first left the shelter of the underground complex, but I never spent a huge amount of time in their company. I’d follow a pack until we found brains or, if they didn’t seem to know what they were doing, I abandoned them and searched for another group.
Some of the zombies peel off on their own, but most stay in packs, usually no more than seven or eight per cluster. Hard to tell if they’re grouped randomly or if these are old friends or family members, united in death as they were in life. They don’t take much notice of one another – no hugging or fond looks – unless they communicate in ways that I’m not able to understand.
There’s a woman in a wheelchair in one of the packs. Curious to see how she fares, I pick that one and stick with it for the whole night, trailing them round the streets of Borough and the surrounding area.
The zombie in the wheelchair has no problem keeping up with the others. Like the skateboarding teenagers, she remembers on some deep, subconscious level how she operated when alive.
They don’t seem to be moving in any specific direction though, taking corners without pausing to think, circling back on themselves without realising it, covering the same ground again. Their heads are constantly twitching as they stare into the shadows, sniff the air and listen for shuffling sounds which might signify life.
Rats are all over the place, foraging for food. They clearly don’t consider the zombies much of a threat. And from what I see, they’re right not to. One member of the pack catches a couple of rodents which were rooting around inside the carcass of a dog. He bites the head off each and chews them with relish. But those are the only successes of the night. The other zombies spend a lot of time
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