‘If you believe the stories of the Old Testament in the Bible, this isn’t the first time this has happened. The Flood wiped the slate clean and people had to start over. Things didn’t work out too well that time, but who’s to say we can’t do better now? The zombies and mutants are clear-cut enemies. Everyone can recognise them as a threat and join against them — Jew, Christian, Muslim, Hindu, white and black, all fighting together, differences set aside.
‘If we win this war, power-hungry people will immediately start thinking about how to establish control over the remnants of mankind. They’ll look for new foes and threats, and work the survivors up into an agitated state. Hatred and domination are the ways of the past and will in all likelihood be the ways of the future too. Unless Dr Oystein and his Angels can help us change.’
Burke pulls a face. ‘I know I’m being a crazy optimist, but I can’t help myself. The best that the old leaders can offer is a return to the status quo. I think, based on what I’ve seen of him, that Dr Oystein holds the promise of true redemption. He’s what a leader should be — a man who is reluctant to tell others how they should behave and what they should believe.’
‘I don’t know if I agree with you,’ I say miserably. ‘I want to, but I can’t get over the fact that this is a guy who claims to be in touch with God. It’s hard for me to go along with someone like that.’
Burke nods. ‘I understand. I won’t try to pressure you, just as Dr Oystein won’t. If you can reconcile yourself to working with us, we’ll welcome your support and you can help us take the fight to Mr Dowling, rescue survivors, work with those who’ve established compounds beyond the confines of the city, search for a way to suppress the zombies. There’s going to be so much to do, so many wars to be waged. We’ll need all the help we can get.
‘But if you can’t trust the doctor, we’ll respect your decision. You’re free to leave any time you want. I doubt you’ll find a more secure home anywhere else in this ruin of a country, but if you need to search for one, you’ll depart with our best wishes.’
I growl uncertainly. ‘I want to stay with you, but I’m gonna need more time to think about it.’
‘That’s fine,’ Burke says. ‘We’re in no rush. Take all the time you want.’ He turns to leave, then looks back at me with a wicked twinkle in his eyes. ‘You know what might help?’
‘What?’ I ask suspiciously.
Burke points to the sky. ‘You could pray,’ he says, then skips along with a laugh as I hurl a most unholy curse after him.
THREE
I head back to the training room and find Master Zhang still there, sitting in a corner. He nods for me to enter when he sees me in the doorway. I take up a position opposite him. He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, but I just plop down on my bum and draw my knees up to my chest.
There’s a sweet smell in the air. Some kind of flavoured tea. It’s coming from a pot to the master’s right. There’s a kettle of water boiling on a small stove to his left.
‘I miss the taste of tea more than anything,’ he says softly, lifting the lid of the pot to stir the contents. ‘It was one of the great pleasures of my life. I did not realise how important it was to me until I was denied it.’
Zhang sniffs the fumes then pours some more water into the pot. He turns off the stove and leaves the kettle to cool. There are some cups stacked behind him. He reaches back slowly, picks up two, passes one to me and sets the other down in front of him.
‘Is this a tea ceremony?’ I ask.
‘You know of such things?’ He sounds surprised.
‘I saw it on a few travel programmes. Looked like a lot of hassle for a simple cup of tea.’
‘The tea ceremony is an ancient Japanese ritual,’ Zhang says, pouring a cup of tea for me and one for himself. ‘It has much more to do with etiquette and tradition than tea. It is a purification process for the soul, a way to honour your guests and bond with them.
‘This is not a tea ceremony,’ he says, picking up his cup and inhaling. ‘I just enjoy the smell and the memory of the taste.’
Zhang sips from the cup, swishes the liquid round his mouth, then picks up a bowl which had been standing next to the cups and spits into it. He passes me the bowl and I follow suit, smelling the fumes, sipping the tea and spitting it out.
‘Didn’t get much of a kick from it,’ I note.
‘No,’ he says sadly. ‘This is a delicate blend. The flavours are subtle and difficult to detect even with an appreciative tongue. With our useless taste buds, we might as well be sipping water.’
‘Then why bother?’ I frown.
‘We might not be able to dream,’ Zhang says, ‘but we can use our imaginations. With the aid of the scent and the texture of the tea, I can sometimes trick myself into believing that I still taste.’
He takes another sip, swishes, spits it out and makes a sighing sound. ‘This is not one of those days.’
We take a few more sips, pretending there’s a point to this. The smell grows on me after a while, and sets me thinking about something.
‘Why do you suppose we can smell when we can’t taste?’
I’m not really expecting an answer, but Zhang surprises me.
‘It is for practical reasons,’ he says. ‘Zombies need to smell, in order to be able to sniff out brains. But since brains are all we eat, we can function without our taste buds.’
I scratch my head, thinking it over. ‘Yeah, that makes sense. I should have figured it out before.’
‘Yes,’ Zhang says. ‘You should.’
I scowl, then laugh. ‘You’re Chinese, aren’t you?’ I ask, changing the subject.
‘Yes.’
‘But the tea ceremony is Japanese …’
‘I have travelled widely,’ he says. ‘I like to think of myself as a citizen of the world. Besides, the Chinese introduced tea to Japan, so I feel that I have a natural entitlement to engage in the ceremony.’
‘What’s the situation like in China now?’ I ask.
‘Not good,’ he says quietly. ‘We had the largest population in the world. That means we now have the largest number of zombies. Life is grim everywhere for those who have survived, but it is particularly difficult in China and India.’
We finish off the tea in silence. When we’re done, Zhang stands and moves to the centre of the room, beckoning me to follow. I stand opposite him, ready to be hurled to the floor. But this time he throws a punch at my face.
With a yelp, I knock his hand aside and step back. He follows, throwing another punch. Again I block it and move away from him. Zhang sweeps his leg beneath both of mine and I fall in a heap.
‘What the hell!’ I snap, rolling away from him.
‘You blocked admirably,’ he says calmly. ‘And your first defensive step was well judged. Your second, on the other hand …’ He tuts.
I stand and dust myself down. ‘Is this the start of my real training?’ I ask.
‘No,’ he says. ‘The real training started the first time I threw you.’
He chops at me and forces me back again. This time I repel four of his attacks before he sweeps my feet from under me.
‘You know what I mean,’ I mutter, rising again. ‘Are you going to teach me to fight now, to strike and defend myself, the way you teach the others?’
‘Yes,’ he says and comes forward a third time, lifting his left foot high to kick my chest. I grab the leg and try to twist it. Zhang rolls with the twist, brings his right leg up and kicks the side of my head, knocking me to the ground.
‘That was ambitious,’ he says. ‘Ambition is good. Caution is better, at least to begin with.’
‘You’re telling me to walk before I try to run?’ I ask, getting up again.
‘No,’ he says. ‘We have no time for walking here. You must learn swiftly and take short cuts. I do not have time to train you in all the ways of the martial arts. So, when in doubt, go for the simplest solution.’
Zhang kicks at me with his left foot again. This
time I chop at his ankle then step back out of reach.
‘Good,’ he grunts and closes in, kicking, punching, chopping, forcing me back, testing my reflexes.
Zhang spars with me for half an hour before telling me to go and rest. ‘You did well,’ he says. ‘We will focus on specific moves next time. This was a useful first workout.’
I bow to Master Zhang and turn to leave. But something’s niggling me. I stop and face him again. He raises the eyebrow of his bloodshot eye – it must have been bloodshot when he was turned into a zombie, and since we don’t heal properly, I’m guessing it will be like that forever – then nods to let me know I can speak.
‘Did Dr Oystein tell you to do this?’ I ask. ‘To step up my training and stop just throwing me about?’
‘Why would you think that?’ he replies.
‘Dr Oystein told me about his conversations with God.’
Zhang’s expression doesn’t change. He waits for me to continue.
‘I think it’s a load of nonsense. I’m not sure if I believe in God. Even if I do, I don’t think He talks to zombies and asks them to save the world.’
‘You must be a wise young lady to be able to dismiss the teachings and beliefs of your elders so easily,’ Zhang says.
‘Of course I’m not,’ I say sourly. ‘I know my limits. But my nose works as well as yours. I recognise bullshit when I smell it.’
‘Really?’ Zhang smiles thinly. ‘Did you eat cheese when you were alive?’
I look at him as if he’s crazy. ‘What sort of a question is that?’
‘A simple one. I enjoyed cheese very much and tried many varieties over the years. They all tasted good to me, but the smell … Some smelled as good as they tasted. Others stank of old socks, fresh vomit, even, yes, bullshit.’
‘Is this one of those famous Chinese riddles?’ I ask when he doesn’t continue.
‘No,’ he says. ‘I am merely pointing out the fact that sometimes one cannot judge by smell alone. Oystein said nothing to me of his meeting with you. I decided to vary your routine because I thought the time was right. I will be doing the same with Rage when he next comes to me. There is nothing more to it than that, no matter what your nose might tell you.’
‘Fair enough,’ I grunt.
‘You believe me?’ he asks.
‘Yeah.’
‘Then why don’t you believe Oystein?’
‘Because you’re not telling me that you can talk with God.’ I pause. ‘You’re not, are you?’
Zhang shakes his head. ‘I do not believe in God. Or reincarnation. Or any kind of supernatural realm.’ He makes a small sighing sound, looking his age for once — he can only have been in his early twenties when he was turned into a zombie. ‘My lack of faith was a source of grave concern for my parents.’
‘Then what the hell are you doing here?’ I growl.
He shrugs. ‘I believe in the doctor. He rescued me years ago. I was living in a small village but had moved there from a large city. I had been vaccinated against the zombie gene. Oystein kept track of me, the way he tried to keep track of all his children — and that is how he thinks of us.
‘When there was an outbreak of zombies in my village, troops moved in to contain it. We were sealed off from the world and those who had been infected were executed. Oystein made sure that I was not killed. He had me isolated and fed. My guardians were issued with strict instructions not to harm me.
‘I took almost five months to revitalise. Most people would have given up on me. Not Oystein. He hates abandoning any of us.’
‘But it’s got to be a problem for you,’ I mutter. ‘How can you believe in him if you don’t believe he really speaks with God?’
‘It is not an issue,’ Zhang insists. ‘He has never asked me to accept his beliefs. He has only asked me to fight, which is all he is asking of you too.’
Zhang returns to his cups and bowls and begins to tidy them away. ‘It is very straightforward in my view,’ he says. ‘A war to decide the future of this planet is being fought. We must choose sides or pretend it is not happening. Assuming you do not go down the road of blind ignorance, and are not on the side of evil, you must back Oystein, regardless of whatever flaws you perceive in him, or look for another leader to support.’
‘Do you think there are others out there?’
‘I am sure there are. But they will have flaws too. You must ask yourself which is worse — a leader firmly rooted in reality who thirsts for power and control, or a truly good-hearted man who might be a touch delusional.
‘I do not think that God exists,’ Zhang says, heading for the door. ‘But there are certainly godly people on this planet, and I am honoured that one of them has deemed me worthy of his friendship and support. You should be too, as I doubt there are many pure people in this world who would see goodness within you.’ He looks at me with a probing expression. ‘Do you even see it within yourself?’
I think of the bad things I have done. Of my racist past. Of Tyler Bayor.
And I can’t say a word.
‘I will see you tomorrow for training,’ Zhang says softly, and shuts the door with a heel, leaving me even more confused and unsure than I was when I came in.
FOUR
I head back to my room, taking my time, creeping through the deserted corridors of County Hall, thinking about all that I’ve been told. As I’m passing one of the building’s many chambers, I hear a strange moaning noise. I slow down and the noise comes again. It sounds like someone in pain. Worried, I open the door. The room is pitch-black.
‘Hello?’ I call out nervously, wary of a trap.
‘Who’s that?’ a girl snaps.
‘B,’ I reply, relaxing now that I’ve placed the voice.
There’s a pause. Then the girl says, ‘Come in and close the door.’
Shutting the door behind me, I shuffle forward into darkness. I’m about to ask for directions when a dim light is switched on. I spot the twins, Awnya and Cian, in a corner. Awnya is sitting against a wall. Cian is lying on the floor, his head buried in his sister’s lap. He’s trembling and moaning into his hands, which are covering his face. Awnya is stroking the back of her brother’s head with one hand, holding a small torch with the other.
I cross the room and squat beside Awnya. ‘What’s going on?’ I whisper as Cian makes a low-pitched weeping noise, his body shaking violently. ‘Is he sick?’
‘Only sick of this world,’ Awnya says quietly. She looks at me with a pained expression. ‘We often come to a quiet place like this. We feel so lonely and we’ve seen so many horrors … Sometimes it gets too much for us and we have to break down and cry.’
‘Zombies can’t cry,’ I remind her.
‘Not the normal way,’ she agrees, ‘but we can cry in our own fashion.’ She strokes Cian’s head again. ‘We take it in turns to comfort one another. We can’t both break down at the same time or we might never recover. One of us always looks out for the other.’
Cian starts to gibber nonsense sentences, then he curses and whimpers. Awnya lays down her torch, massages his shoulders with both hands and sings to him, an old ballad which I vaguely recognise. It should be laughable but it’s strangely touching.
‘Do you want me to leave?’ I whisper between verses.
‘Not unless you feel awkward,’ Awnya says and carries on singing.
I lay my head against the wall and listen to the song. I’d like to close my eyes but I can’t. Instead I study the shadows thrown across the room by the torch. There are cobwebs running along the top of the skirting board opposite us. The world has gone to hell, but life goes on as usual for these spiders. They know nothing of zombies, mutants, God. They just spin their webs and wait for dinner. Lucky sods.
Cian eventually stops snivelling and sits up. He rubs his cheeks and smiles shakily at me, embarrassed but not mortified.
‘We’re lucky,’ Awnya says, brushing Cian’s blond hair out of his eyes. ‘We have each other. I don’t know how the rest of
you cope.’
I shrug. ‘You learn to deal with it.’
‘It’s because we’re the youngest,’ Cian mutters. ‘Dr Oystein says that a year or two makes a big difference. He says we can go to him any time we want, for comfort or anything else, but he thinks it’s better if we can support ourselves.’
‘This is a hard world for the weak,’ Awnya notes.
‘We’re not weak,’ Cian snaps.
Awnya rolls her eyes, then squints at me. ‘Did Dr Oystein tell you everything?’
‘Yeah.’
‘It’s brilliant, isn’t it?’ Cian says. ‘Being on the side of God and all.’
‘I think it’s scary,’ Awnya murmurs.
‘That’s because you’re a girl. Girls are soft,’ Cian sniffs, apparently forgetting that moments earlier he was whining like a baby. ‘I’m not afraid of the Devil, Mr Dowling or anyone else.’
‘Of course you are,’ Awnya says. ‘We all are. And we’re right to be afraid, aren’t we, B? You met the clown. He’s as scary as Dr Oystein says, isn’t he?’
I nod slowly. ‘He’s a terrifying bugger, there’s no doubt about that. But as for him working for the Devil, don’t make me laugh.’
‘What do you mean?’ Awnya asks.
‘You don’t really believe that, do you, about God and the Devil?’
‘Of course we do,’ Cian says stiffly. ‘Dr Oystein told us.’
‘And you buy everything he says?’ I sneer.
‘Yes, actually,’ Awnya growls, pushing herself away from me.
‘Dr Oystein saved us,’ Cian says.
‘He gave us a home,’ Awnya says.
‘He’s a saint,’ Cian says.
‘Our only hope for the future,’ Awnya says.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ I rumble. ‘He’s doing a fantastic job and he’s a first-rate geezer, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s crazy. If God is real, He doesn’t get involved in our affairs. This is all about what our stupid scientists and armies have done to the world, not about a war between God and Satan.’