The Restless Dead: A Zombie Novel (11 page)

18 TRAPPED

We’ve set up base in the furniture department, and Scott and I are stuffing cold thick-crusted cheese and tomato pizza into my mouth when Kenny skips in.

“Do you want to see something really cool?” His face is lit up like a Christmas tree. “You’re gonna love this.”

We follow Kenny into a room full of monitors. All the time he’s chirping away. “This is the heart of the place. It’s the security centre. Isn’t it great?”

Mustafa’s lounging in a swivel chair, munching on a chocolate bar and pressing buttons to zoom in and out and switch viewpoints on the widescreen in front of him. He looks up at us and points to the image. “This is the front entrance.”

More dead bastards have arrived and the scene reminds me of the one from
Shaun of the Dead
where the zombies' faces are pressed against the windows of the pub.

I’m amazed that the sheer weight of them pressing against the glass hasn’t caved in the door.

There’s something mesmerising about seeing so many of them up close, knowing that we’re safe. The faces of the rotters closest to the camera are twisted grotesquely against the glass like the creatures you’d encounter in purgatory. Their lips are curled into snarls showing off their ragged teeth and pink gums. There’s blood on their mouths that remind me painted-on clown smiles. Some of them have seeping sores on what’s left of their faces; it must be the decomposition.

The camera zooms in on one man. Half the flesh from his face has been sheared off, and a bloody bandage has been wound round his head. For a moment his eyes stare into the camera and it’s as though he can see me. Goosebumps creep down my neck. His dead eyes show no trace of a thinking, feeling, living being. In a blink of an eye, his stare is replaced by wild-eyed rage. He hurls his body at the door, bony fingers with blood caked on the nails splayed out as if they’re the claws of a rake, scratching at the glass. 

His antics set off the others, and they pound on the glass, some violently shoving their own kind out the way to get closer. One zombie, without any hair, spews yellow pus across the screen and I jump back, immediately feeling stupid for being so skittish.

It’s only a screen; they can’t get us, dummy.

“Why are they acting so crazy?” I ask.

“They can smell us,” Kenny says. “It’s only a matter of time before they break in. But we’ll be long gone by then.”

Doyle enters the room. “What’s going on?”

“They’re trying to break down the doors.” I stammer. “What are we going to do?”

Doyle examines the screen then turns to me, his expression gentle. “They’ll never get through that bombproof door.” There’s a reassurance about his tone.

How the hell does he know all this stuff?

I have to ask him, “How do you know?”

“I did my homework.”

Mustafa’s busy watching the security cameras. “Creepy bastards,” he says before zooming in on a zombified woman wearing a low-cut lace top that exposes her humungous boobs. He whistles through his teeth and shapes his hands as though he’s holding a breast in each. It takes all my energy not to walk over and slap him across the face.

Kenny’s pointing out various dead bastards and their varying states of decomposition.

I've had enough and I leave.

Two hours later, we’ve all collapsed into comfy chairs in the furniture store, our stomachs stuffed. If we got chased now, I’d have to waddle away because I’m too full to run.

The news stations are stuck in a loop on the plasma TVs that hang from the wall. A Scottish news channel keeps playing the same stories. One is about this shopping centre being evacuated after a bomb scare. Maybe Doyle’s terror cell called in a bomb threat so the emergency services would be busy here when Doyle blew himself up at the airport. I remember reading how the IRA used that tactic to overtax the authorities. Draw them to one place; target another.

We have something else to thank Doyle for. Without the bomb scare, this place would have been heaving with folk. Instead, shoppers and staffers were locked out, probably sealing their fate outside but guaranteeing we had a safe haven.

We’ve grabbed ourselves loads of new gear. I’m now the proud owner of a coat designed for snowboarders that’s warm enough for a trip to the Antarctic, a cable knit jumper, thermal underwear, climbing boots and gloves. We’ve also grabbed some sleeping bags, tinned food, bottles of water, and as many solar powered and wind-up gadgets as we can fit into our brand new backpacks. Spirits are high. Mustafa’s called a temporary ceasefire on sniping at Doyle, which I’m relieved about. He really shouldn’t be antagonising a man who has a bomb vest in his backpack.

We’re even finding time to laugh at our predicament with Scott keeping a straight face as he listens to Doyle tell us why we should be stocking up on dog food for our journey. “It lasts for ages, it's nutritious, easy to store.”

Scott says, “I can believe that. One of my neighbours used to sit on the front step eating a tin of dog food every night.”

We look at him and scowl. Dog food? Yuck.

“I was only a wee boy at the time. Shy as they come. Anyway, one day I asked him why he ate dog food for his dinner, and do you know what he told me?” He pauses with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Everyone stares at him like they’re hooked.

Kenny bites. “What did he tell you?”

“Wuff.” Scott grins.

Everybody laughs, including me.

Later on as I lie snuggled up to Scott, I close my eyes and pretend I'm in a place where the most pressing issue is whose turn it is to buy the milk.

Eventually, I drift off to sleep but it’s far from restful because it’s fractured by dreams.

I dream of our baby being born, a girl. She’s a bonnie wee thing with wisps of golden hair that tickle my face when I kiss her little head, and she has Scott’s nose, only daintier. She smells of fresh heather on a fine spring’s day. When I go to feed her for the first time she doesn’t go for the nipple, she latches onto the whole breast and bites down on the flesh with teeth like razor blades. Searing pain rips through my body, and I wake up screaming and clutching my breast.

Different variations of this hell are played out.

In one, I wake up swaddled in sheets, thinking I’m still pregnant, only when I gaze down, my stomach’s been ripped open and a monster baby is feasting on my entrails, its lips glistening with my blood.

When Scott shakes me awake, I can’t tell if its morning or night, and a sense of panic claws at my heart as the ceiling lights blind my eyes. I push myself up in the bed. “Where are we?” My throat’s so dry I croak out the words.

Scott teases a strand of hair that’s fallen on my face behind my ear. “We’re in the shopping centre. The furniture department.”

Despair grips me by the throat. Is this how it’s going to be from now on?

Scott tells me, “You need to get up.”

I flop back down on the pillow. “Can’t I just sleep?”

Doyle appears. He’s decked out in Army gear, and I have to do a double take. He’s carrying a new backpack. Maybe it comes with a separate pocket for bombs.

“We’ve got to move out soon, guys. We’ve been watching the cameras, and it looks like the mall is about to be compromised.”

He’s talking like an army major doing a troop briefing, and it takes me a moment to realise he means the dead bastards are about to get into the centre.

My chest tightens. “I thought we were safe here.”

“They’ve broken through the main ventilation system. As long as the fans keep running they can’t go any further without ending up like boiled meat.”

I recall what Kenny said. “Oh my God. They can smell us.”

Mustafa shrugs. “So, we’re safe. With the fans going. What’s the problem?”

A droplet of sweat trickles down Doyle’s brow. “The generator’s about to run out of fuel.”

“Then the fans will stop and they’ll climb through.” Scott’s voice is a hush. I don’t doubt what he’s saying. He knows these things.

Panic catches in my throat. “We have to get out, but how?”

“The same way we got in,” says Doyle with a level of certainty in his voice that I find comforting, “But it’s not going to be easy.”

Scott’s face is tense. “They’ve broken into the car park?”

Mustafa and Kenny appear at Doyle’s back.

Mustafa says. “At the moment, there’s only a few freaks in the car park, but more will get in.”

I’m thinking we must be able to get past them when Doyle’s shoulders stiffen.

“That’s not the problem, is it?” I say.

Doyle shakes his heads. “Sometime during the night, the security alarm in this place locked all the exits.”

“Why would it do that?” Scott asks.

“Motion sensors set off the silent alarm and locked us in so the cops could catch us in the act of robbing the place.”

Scott’s analyzing again. “But there’s no cops so there’s no way out.”

“Damn you, Doyle,” Mustafa shouts. “You got us trapped in here.” He lunges for him.

Scott launches himself at Mustafa and grabs him. “This isn’t the time.”

So much for Doyle knowing everything about this place. “Why didn’t you know about the motion sensors?” I demand to know.

He simply shrugs. “It’s not as though that’s the kind of thing we’d need to know. We were planning to bomb the place, not rob it.”

“What do we do, then?” says Scott. His usual calm exterior is starting to crumble.

“It’ll be tricky,” says Doyle, “but when the generator stops, all the doors will unlock, it’s a safety thing so no one’s trapped inside during a complete power cut or a fire.”

“But it’ll be pitch dark,” I say.

“The battery powered emergency lighting will kick in, giving us a few minutes of light.”

“We won’t have a few minutes. They’ll be all over us. We won’t stand a chance.”

Doyle nods. “But while they’re coming in from one direction, we’ll be going out another.”

“Through the car park door,” Kenny grins. “To the Rover. Piece of cake.”

“We still have to take time to pack up all this stuff. We’re going to need it if we want to stay alive.” I wave a hand over our pile of loot. “They'll get us before we can get out of the car park.”

Doyle thinks for a moment then says, “We’ll need someone to distract them and draw them away from us. Anybody up for it?"

Mustafa sneers at Doyle. “You’re an idiot if you think for one minute that one of us will volunteer to be zombie bait.”

“No, Muzz, he’s right,” Kenny says, his voice edgy with excitement. “I’ll do it. I’ll draw their attention while you guys get away.”

19 INSIDE, THEY CAN’T STOP SCREAMING

Panic stampedes across my heart. In the short time, I've known him I've become fond of him. He's the little brother I've never had. “You can’t do it, Kenny. We can’t let you do it.”

“It’s suicide,” Scott says.

Mustafa throws his hands in the air. “He’s not thinking straight.” Like me, he doesn't want to lose Kenny.

Kenny’s eyes are bright behind his specs. “When you see the zombies, what do you notice?”

“Mad bastards who want to eat me,” Mustafa says, proving yet again that he’s a complete idiot.

I pounce. We don’t have time for this shit. “How much time do we have, Doyle?”

“Dunno. One minute, ten minutes, fifteen. Whenever the generator fuel runs out. All I know is it won’t be long.”

Kenny takes a deep breath. When he exhales, he sounds like a deflating balloon. “Come on, we talked about this. They hold their heads because they have headaches. And what’s the worst thing for a headache?”

“Annoying questions,” I say impatiently. "Why are we wasting time?"

Kenny eyes us with disappointment, like we’re not getting the obvious. “Loud noise.” He points to the wall. “I give you our new secret weapon. Durrah.” He’s showing us bagpipes that a shop has on display to promote their Highland wear range.

Despite the gravity of our situation, we can’t stop hooting with laughter.

“What are you going to do with them?” Mustafa asks. “Play the bastards some really bad Scottish music? Hey, why not hold a great big fucking ceilidh and see if we can dance our way out of here to Auld Lang Syne? He puts his hands on his hips and pretends to dance the Highland fling. “And here I was hoping you had a Kalashnikov or rocket launcher.”

Kenny eyes us as if we’re as dumb as rocks and he’s the smartest person in the world. “The sound of those bagpipes and the pain they’ll inflict will override their need to feed on human flesh. They’ll do everything they can to stop the noise; to get to me and make it stop. When the power goes out, I’ll play the bagpipes. They’ll come after me, anywhere I go, every one of them. That’ll give you time to load up and escape. Problem solved.”

He eyes us each in turn. Dissatisfied with our lack of support, he launches into a lengthy theory ending with: “The reason they eat human flesh and brains in particular is because it stops the screaming inside their heads.”

“He’s got a point,” Mustafa says. He's none too happy at having to admit it.

Doyle asks, “Anyone have a better plan to draw them away?”

“We could always stick you on a pole like a human kebab for them to grab,” Mustafa quips.

Scott says, “I think Kenny’s plan might work, but we’re not just leaving him here.”

I can’t believe that they are even considering this...this suicide mission. May as well just skewer Kenny on a fish hook and dunk him in an ocean full of sharks.

I turn to face Kenny. “How will you make it out?” There's desperation in my voice.

Mustafa eyes me with something approaching pity. “He won’t.”

“I’ll give you ten minutes to get out and loaded up,” Kenny says. “Then I’ll circle back around to the car park door. I’ll be like the Pied Piper.” His eyes sparkle as he talks. He's excited about this, about this suicide mission.

“Only there was no way his rats would eat him,” Mustafa counters. “I’ll do it. I have a chance of making it back. I’m fast. I go running.”

Looking at pasty-faced dough ball Kenny I’m forced to concede Mustafa’s has a good point. “Yeah, let Mustafa go.”

“Thanks, Muzz,” Kenny says. “But maybe this is why I learned to play the bagpipes at school. I’m destined to do this.”

“You’re lying,” Mustafa said. “I’ve never seen you play.”

“You’ve never seen me take a shower either.”

In spite of the situation, Kenny’s comment makes us chuckle.

Kenny’s made up his mind and there’s no changing it. No point in trying to talk him out of this insanity.

I note that the suicide bomber still hasn’t offered himself up. Probably because he has the wheels. And he’s now removed the gun from his belt. He’d rather let poor, innocent Kenny be thrown to the lions.

It’s as if he can hear what I’m thinking. “I’d go,” says Doyle, “But if any of those crazies catch up with us you’re going to need me. I’m the only one here who’s ever fired a gun.”

Knowing there’s no way of changing Kenny’s mind, I grab his arm. I know my nails are pinching into his skin, but this isn’t the time to be delicate. “Don’t let those dead bastards get you, Kenny.”

He smiles. “I’ve always wanted to be a hero, but unlike the ones in zombie movies I’m going to survive. You can bet on it.” His smile turns lopsided and tight. “I can be pretty quick on my feet when I have to be. You’ll see.”

Scott puts his hand on Kenny’s shoulder. “Are you sure this will work?”

“Aye,” Kenny says with conviction in his voice. “Nothing surer.”

He takes the bagpipes and starts walking down towards the escalators. When he reaches the top, he turns to face us.

“You know, guys,” he says, mouth twitching like he’s trying to avoid blubbering. “You’re the only real family I’ve ever had.”

He steps out of sight and tunes up the bagpipes. All thoughts are drowned out by the din. When he told us he could play, it was a barefaced lie. His music is as tuneful as a trashcan full of cats.

Then the lights go out.