Zom-B by Darren Shan Page B

comes out more as a sob.
    “I’m interested in dreams,” Owl Man beams. “Especially dreams of monstrous babies. mummy ,” he adds in a high-pitched voice, and it sounds just the way the babies in my nightmare say it.
    “Get out of my room,” I moan. “Get out before I call my dad and tell him you tried to molest me.”
    “Your father knows I would never do anything like that,” Owl Man sniffs and takes a step closer. “I’m not leaving until you tell me.”
    “No,” I spit. “I don’t have it anymore, okay?”
    Owl Man studies me silently. Then his lips lift into an even wider, sickening smile. “You’re lying. You do still have the dream. How interesting.”
    The tall, thin man pats his potbelly, then presses his fingers to his lips and blows me a kiss. “Good evening, B. It has been a pleasure meeting you again after all these years. Take care of yourself. There are dark times ahead of us. But I think you will fare well.”
    With that he turns and slips out of my room, carefully closing the door behind him. I don’t put my headphones back on. I can’t move. I just lie on my bed, think about his enormous eyes, wonder at the nature of his questions and shiver.

TWELVE
    I don’t see much of Dad over the next few days. It’s like he’s avoiding me. I want to ask him about the strange visitor, find out his real name, where he’s from, why he was here, why Dad told him about my dreams. But Dad clearly doesn’t want to discuss it, and what Dad wants, Dad gets.
    So I say nothing. I keep my questions to myself. And I try to pretend that my surreal conversation with Owl Man never happened.

    On Friday we visit the Imperial War Museum. I’ve been looking forward to this for weeks and my spirits lift for the first time since my run-in with Nancy and the rest of that bizarre afternoon. We don’t go on many school trips—the money isn’t there, plus we’re buggers to control when we’re let loose. Twenty of our lot were taken to the Tate Modern last year and they ran wild. The teachers swore never again, but they seem to have had a change of heart.
    “I don’t expect you to behave like good little boys and girls,” Burke says on the Tube, to a chorus of jeers and whistles. “But don’t piss me off. I’m in charge of you and I’ll be held accountable if you get out of hand. Don’t steal, don’t beat up the staff, and be back at the meeting point at the arranged time.”
    “Do we get a prize if we do all that, sir?” Trev asks.
    “No,” Burke says. “You get my respect.”
    I love the War Museum. I was here before, when I was in primary school. We were meant to be looking at the World War I stuff, but the tanks and planes in the main hall are what I most remember.
    “Look at the bloody cannons!” Elephant gasps as we enter the gardens outside the museum. “They’re massive!”
    “You can have a proper look at them later,” Burke says.
    “Aw, sir, just a quick look now,” Elephant pleads.
    Burke says nothing, just pushes on, and we follow.
    The main hall still impresses. I thought it might be disappointing this time, but the tanks and planes are as cool as ever. The planes hang from the ceiling, loads of them, and the ceiling’s three or four floors high. Everyone coos, necks craned, then we hurry to the tanks. They’re amazing, and you can even crawl into some and pretend that you’re driving them. We should be too old for that sort of stuff, but it’s like we slip back to when we were ten years old—the lure of the tanks is impossible to resist.
    Burke gives us a few minutes to mess around. We’re the second group from the school to arrive. As the third lot trickle in, we form a group and head upstairs to where the Holocaust exhibition starts.
    This is the reason we’re here. We haven’t focused much on the Holocaust in class–at least not that I remember, though I guess I could have slept through it–but our teachers reckon this is important, so they’ve brought us anyway,