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The area outside the scrapyard is deserted. Old boarded-up houses, derelict for years. Faded signs over stores or factories that closed for business long before I was born. The only thing that looks halfway recent is the graffiti, but there's not even much of that, despite the fact that this place boasts all the blank walls a graffiti artist could dream of.

It feels like a dead zone, an area that nobody lived in or visited anytime in living memory. I stagger along a narrow, gloomy street, seeking the shade at the side. The worst of the itching dies away once I get out of the sunlight. My eyes stop stinging too. The irritation's still there but it's bearable now. Halfway up the street, the stabbing pain in my stomach comes again and I fall to my knees, dry heaving, whining like a dying dog.

I bare my unnaturally long, sharp teeth and thump the side of my head with my hand, trying to knock my senses back into place.

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The pain increases and I roll over. I bang into a wall and punch it hard, tearing the skin on my knuckles. That would have brought tears to my eyes if all my tear ducts hadn't dried up when I died. My back arches and my mouth widens. I stare at the sky with horror, thinking I'll never look at it again this way, as a person capable of thought.

In another few seconds I'll be a brainless zombie, a shadow of a girl, lost to the world forever. But to my relief the pain passes and again I'm able to force myself to my feet, mind intact. I chuckle weakly at my lucky escape. But even as I'm chuckling, I know I must have used up all nine of my lives by this stage. I can't survive another dizzying attack like that. I'm nearing the end.

Even the dead have their limits. I stumble forward, reeling like a drunk. My legs don't want to support me and I almost go down, but I manage to keep my balance. Coming to the end of the street, I grab a lamppost and swing out into a road. Several cars are parked along the pavement and a few have been stranded in the middle of the road. One has overturned. The windows are all smashed in and bones line the asphalt around it.

The sun is blinding again now that I've left the gloom. I hurry to the nearest car in search of shelter. When I get there, I find two people lying on the backseat. Both boast a series of bite marks and scratches, each one of which is lined with a light green moss. The zombies raise their heads and growl warningly. This is their turf and they don't want to share it with me. Fair enough. I don't really want to bed down with them either.

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I lurch to the next car but that's occupied too, this time by a fat zombie who is missing his jaw—it was either ripped off when he was killed, or torn from him later. He looks comical and creepy at the same time. The third car is empty and I start to crawl in out of the light, to rest in the shade and wait for my senses to crumble. For all intents and purposes, this car will serve as my tomb, the place where B Smith gave up the ghost and became a true member of the walking dead. But just as I'm bidding farewell to the world of the conscious, my nostrils twitch. Pausing, I pull back and sniff the air.

My taste buds haven't been worth a damn since I returned to life, but my sense of smell is stronger than ever. I've caught a whiff of something familiar, something that I was eating for a long time underground without knowing what it was. Three cars farther down the road is a Skoda, the source of the tantalizing scent.

As weary as I am and as agonizing as it is, I force myself on, focusing on the Skoda and the sweet, sweet smell. My legs give out before I get to the car, but I don't let that stop me. Digging my finger bones into the asphalt, I drag myself along, crawling on my belly like a worm, baking in the sun, half-blind, itching like mad, brain shutting down. Every part of me wants to give up and die, but the scent lures me on, and soon I'm hauling myself into the Skoda through the front passenger door. The driver is still held in place by her seat belt, but is lying slumped sideways.

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Most of her flesh has been torn from her bones, and her head has been split open, her brains scooped out and gobbled up by the zombies who caught her as she was trying to flee. She's not entirely fresh but she's not rotting either. She must have been killed quite recently. I should feel sympathy for the woman and curiosity about how she survived this long and where she was headed when she was attacked. But right now all I'm concerned about is that those who fed on her didn't scrape her dry.

Bits of brain have been left behind. Slivers are stuck to her scalp and meatier chunks rest inside the hollow of her skull. Like a monstrous baby taking to the teat, I latch on to the shattered bones and suck tendrils of brain from them. I run my tongue the whole way round the rim, not caring about the fact that it's disgusting, that I'm behaving like an animal.

In fact I'm ecstatic, getting an unbelievable buzz from the gray scraps, feeling myself strengthen as I suck, knowing I can keep the senseless beast inside me at bay for a while longer.

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When I've sucked the bones dry, I pull back a touch, wipe my lips, then steel myself for what I have to do next. Then I stick my fingers into the dead woman's head, scoop out every bit of brain that I can find, and stuff myself like a cannibal at Christmas. Once I'm done dining, I lean out of the car and force myself to vomit. If I keep food inside my system, it will rot and attract insects. I've no wish to become a sanctuary for London's creepy crawlies. I pull back inside and shelter from the sunlight as best I can, staring glumly at the ceiling of the car, thinking about the underground complex, Rage killing Dr.

Cerveris and leaving us to our own devices, poor Mark being eaten, the zom heads being burned alive. Create an account. How to resolve AdBlock issue? Write Review. Author s. Darren Shan. Little, Brown Books for Young Readers. Horror Post-Apocalyptic. After escaping a secret military complex amid the zombie apocalypse, B roams the streets of a very changed London, dirty and dangerous and eerily quiet, except for the shuffling of the undead.

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Once again, B must find a way to survive against brain-eating zombies --and now also against those who have seized control of the city. With danger lurking around every corner and no one to trust, B must decide whether to join the creepy Mr. Dowling in exchange for his protection. When everyone around you is dead, where do you turn for help? User reviews There are no user reviews for this listing. Already have an account? Log in now or Create an account.

Powered by JReviews. Ready to celebrate the 50th anniversary of the Moon Landing? Want to avoid summer "Brain Drain"?! Posted in Giveaways. Read more. Each week we will be interviewing a different YA author and highlighting their upcoming release! We will also be hosting a givea Read on for more about Kathy, plus an interview and an giveaway! Meet Kathy Read on for more about Emily and her book, an excerpt, plus an giveaway! Meet Emily R K Latest Book Listings Added. A Dress for the Wicked. How will B survive in this city of the dead? Shan's books have sold in every continent, in thirty-one languages, and have been bestsellers worldwide.

In total, they have sold over twenty-five million copies. Shan divides his time between his homes in Limerick and London. Get our latest book recommendations, author news, and competitions right to your inbox.

Zom-B City

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