After a long trek through London’s charming waste system, we nudge into what feels like a much larger tunnel. Even though it’s pitch-black, I can tell we’re no longer in the sewers. The babies’ feet don’t splash in putrid puddles, and echoes are tinnier. Plus the smell has faded.
As we progress, I spot light far ahead. I raise my head, but it’s too far off to make out any details, so I lie back and wait, humming tunelessly to myself.
The glow increases as we march towards the mouth of the tunnel. The roof and its array of pipes and cables swim into focus. I’m familiar with areas like this, so I know now where we are. It’s a Tube line, one of the maze of underground tunnels that used to play host to trains packed with commuters in the old days.
“Choo-choo!” I croak.
The babies copy me. “choo-choo mummy. choo-choo.”
“Good babies,” I murmur. “Let’s try another one.” I start singing, “The wheels on the bus go round and round,” but the babies don’t take up the tune. Maybe they don’t like that song. Or maybe they never saw a bus in action. If they were born after mankind fell, the song would mean nothing to them.
There’s no telling how old the unnatural infants are. I’m assuming that, like zombies, they age slowly. If that’s the case, they could be as old as I am, or older. Maybe they’re adults, trapped in the bodies of babies, decades shy of reaching maturity.
We pass from the tunnel into the light and I have to fling an arm over my eyes to shield them from the glare. My vision starts to adjust as we move along, and after a while I’m able to lower the arm and take in my surroundings.
We’re passing through a Tube station. I raise my head and spot a sign with the name Temple on it. I sometimes swept through here on a train from the East End. We’re not that far from County Hall.
There are grunting sounds and I look around. Loads of zombies are standing at the edge of the platform, staring at us. Some of them have cocked their heads in confusion, and I can tell they don’t know what to make of us.