this is a trap and I’m not the first revitalised he’s lured back – but then I recall his yellow trousers and chuckle weakly. What sort of a bad guy would wear yellow pants?
Maybe it’s just because I’m lonely, but I decide to trust my new-found friend. Putting my doubts behind me, I step into the gloom of the building and try not to show any signs of unease as Timothy gently swings the oversized door shut and cuts us off from the outside world.
THIRTEEN
Timothy throws a switch and lights flicker on all over the place. We’re in a spacious room, the sort you might find in a warehouse. The windows have all been boarded over to keep in the light and keep out the zombies.
‘Most of that was done before I came,’ Timothy says, nodding at the planks nailed over the glass. ‘There were five other people sheltering here then, including a security guard who was on duty when the zombies attacked.’
‘What happened to them?’ I ask.
‘Two were captured by zombies over the following weeks. The others decided to make a break for freedom. The last I saw of them, they were heading for the river to search for a boat.’
‘Why didn’t you go with them?’
He looks at me as if I’m crazy. ‘I told you, I’m a painter. I stayed behind to paint.’
Timothy leads me up a short set of stairs and into an even larger room. There are canvases everywhere, most of them blank, along with brushes, tins of paint, easels and all sorts of artistic bits and bobs.
‘I loved the East End art scene,’ Timothy says as we stride through the room. ‘It felt natural that I come here once London fell. I originally meant to make camp in an ordinary house, but when I strolled up Brick Lane and realised this amazing space was occupied by humans and secure, I knew it was fate.’
We climb another set of stairs and come to a massive room. The windows have been boarded over here too, though some cracks have been left between the planks to let light through.
‘Why the boards?’ I ask. ‘Surely you don’t need them this high up.’
Timothy squints at me. ‘Are you sure you’re a zombie?’
I point to the hole in my chest.
‘Good answer. But then why do you know so little about your kind?’
‘I was locked up,’ I tell him. ‘I only broke free a few weeks ago and I’ve laid low most nights since then.’
‘Well,’ Timothy chuckles, ‘the good news is that if you like climbing, you’re in for a treat. Those bones sticking out of your fingers are extraordinarily durable. They’ll dig into wood, brick, all sorts of substances. Determined zombies can scale the walls of old buildings like this.’
The room is crammed with canvases, but unlike those downstairs, these have been worked on. A few are hanging, but most stand on the floor, propped against the walls. In some places they’re stacked twelve deep.
‘When I first moved in, I thought I’d have all the space I’d ever need,’ Timothy says as we slowly circle the room, studying the paintings. ‘But I didn’t anticipate my muse calling to me so strongly. As you can see, I’ve been prolific.’
The paintings are dark, ominous, creepy, full of zombies, corpses, deserted streets, spooky sunsets. Even though I’m no art expert, they instantly give me a sense of pain, suffering and loss. It’s like stepping into a gallery of Hell.
‘Do you like them?’ Timothy asks, chewing a nail, trying to act as if he doesn’t care about my answer.
‘They’re unbelievable,’ I sigh and his face lights up.
‘They are rather good, aren’t they?’ he chirps, picking up one of the canvases and beaming at it. It’s a painting of a young girl, her head cracked open, brains spilling on to the pavement, face smeared with blood. But the way he gazes at it, it could be a painting of a bunch of flowers.
‘To be honest, I was never the most skilled of artists,’ Timothy admits. ‘But then the zombies rose up, everyone fled or was killed, I was left here virtually alone,
Maybe it’s just because I’m lonely, but I decide to trust my new-found friend. Putting my doubts behind me, I step into the gloom of the building and try not to show any signs of unease as Timothy gently swings the oversized door shut and cuts us off from the outside world.
THIRTEEN
Timothy throws a switch and lights flicker on all over the place. We’re in a spacious room, the sort you might find in a warehouse. The windows have all been boarded over to keep in the light and keep out the zombies.
‘Most of that was done before I came,’ Timothy says, nodding at the planks nailed over the glass. ‘There were five other people sheltering here then, including a security guard who was on duty when the zombies attacked.’
‘What happened to them?’ I ask.
‘Two were captured by zombies over the following weeks. The others decided to make a break for freedom. The last I saw of them, they were heading for the river to search for a boat.’
‘Why didn’t you go with them?’
He looks at me as if I’m crazy. ‘I told you, I’m a painter. I stayed behind to paint.’
Timothy leads me up a short set of stairs and into an even larger room. There are canvases everywhere, most of them blank, along with brushes, tins of paint, easels and all sorts of artistic bits and bobs.
‘I loved the East End art scene,’ Timothy says as we stride through the room. ‘It felt natural that I come here once London fell. I originally meant to make camp in an ordinary house, but when I strolled up Brick Lane and realised this amazing space was occupied by humans and secure, I knew it was fate.’
We climb another set of stairs and come to a massive room. The windows have been boarded over here too, though some cracks have been left between the planks to let light through.
‘Why the boards?’ I ask. ‘Surely you don’t need them this high up.’
Timothy squints at me. ‘Are you sure you’re a zombie?’
I point to the hole in my chest.
‘Good answer. But then why do you know so little about your kind?’
‘I was locked up,’ I tell him. ‘I only broke free a few weeks ago and I’ve laid low most nights since then.’
‘Well,’ Timothy chuckles, ‘the good news is that if you like climbing, you’re in for a treat. Those bones sticking out of your fingers are extraordinarily durable. They’ll dig into wood, brick, all sorts of substances. Determined zombies can scale the walls of old buildings like this.’
The room is crammed with canvases, but unlike those downstairs, these have been worked on. A few are hanging, but most stand on the floor, propped against the walls. In some places they’re stacked twelve deep.
‘When I first moved in, I thought I’d have all the space I’d ever need,’ Timothy says as we slowly circle the room, studying the paintings. ‘But I didn’t anticipate my muse calling to me so strongly. As you can see, I’ve been prolific.’
The paintings are dark, ominous, creepy, full of zombies, corpses, deserted streets, spooky sunsets. Even though I’m no art expert, they instantly give me a sense of pain, suffering and loss. It’s like stepping into a gallery of Hell.
‘Do you like them?’ Timothy asks, chewing a nail, trying to act as if he doesn’t care about my answer.
‘They’re unbelievable,’ I sigh and his face lights up.
‘They are rather good, aren’t they?’ he chirps, picking up one of the canvases and beaming at it. It’s a painting of a young girl, her head cracked open, brains spilling on to the pavement, face smeared with blood. But the way he gazes at it, it could be a painting of a bunch of flowers.
‘To be honest, I was never the most skilled of artists,’ Timothy admits. ‘But then the zombies rose up, everyone fled or was killed, I was left here virtually alone,
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