Undead (9780545473460) (3 page)

“Don't let him in!” says Alice, trying to climb up, too.

I squint in the direction of the café. No need for the binoculars to see Mr. Taylor now. The snow has stopped, and through the strange pale purplish light I can see the teacher stagger out of the door of the café.

“He doesn't look right,” I state the obvious.

“Duh, you think?” Alice appears in the hatch. “I told you he tried to grab me and his eyes were all screwy.”

“And the rest.” Smitty shoves the binoculars at me. “Take a look.”

I hold them up to my face and the eyepieces balance heavily on the top of my cheeks as I turn the dial to bring the scene into focus. Mr. Taylor's head sways in and out of view. I steady my wrists against the roof and stare. The teacher's face looks bruised and greenish-brown, his eyes are blackened and screwed tight, and his mouth is open like a trapdoor on a slack hinge. Worse, there is something running down his chin.
What is that?
I blink and look again. It's blood, dripping from his jaws and plopping onto the white snow. I slowly pass the binoculars back to Smitty.

“I don't think he remembered your sandwich.”

“Let me see!” Alice tries to elbow me out of the way, but loses her footing on the seat below. With another squeal she slips and almost falls, saving herself at the last moment by shooting out a hand and grabbing at the hatch lid. It rises off the roof for a split second, then crashes down again with a thump.

Mr. Taylor's head snaps up. He sees us. Letting out a long groan, he stretches his arms out and heads directly toward the bus.

He looks . . . hungry.

I can only grip the side of the hatch and watch as the thing formerly known as Mr. Taylor lurches down the café steps toward us.

“He doesn't seem very happy,” I say, overly casually, because it's either that or flat-out panic. “Maybe we don't let him in, huh?”

Beside me, Alice starts to whine, not unlike one of those little handbag dogs that she probably aspires to own.

“He's coming for me — didn't I tell you he tried to grab me?”

Smitty thrusts the binoculars at her. “Watch him. Scream if he gets close. You can do that.” He turns to me. “We need to barricade the door somehow, now!” He's down off the seats and through the bus like a mountain goat. I follow, a little less cleverly.

“Oi, dude!” Smitty shakes the driver. “How do you lock this door?”

The driver's head lolls to the side, and Smitty slaps him on the cheek.

“Don't!” I say. “You'll hurt him.”

“He's out cold.” Smitty's looking for something on the dashboard. “Nope, doesn't look like these doors lock.”

I search for a button, a lever, something — but he's right. The door is in four long vertical sections that fold in on themselves like a paper fan when they open. An idea comes to me. “If we had something to put across, like a piece of wood —”

“Got it.” Smitty calls down the aisle. “How we doing, Malice?”

Alice's blond head ducks down into the bus momentarily. “Do not call me that, you total freak.”

“Is Mr. T still heading for us?” I say.

Alice sticks her head out again. “Yes!” she shouts down to us. “Slowly. He's sort of staggering around the parked cars, but he's coming this way. Oh my god, he's horrible. He's completely
dribbling
.”

“Lovely-jubbly.” Smitty grins at me. “I'm going to get my snowboard. Shut the door behind me, won't you?”

“What?” My jaw drops. “Outside?”

Smitty reaches under my chin and closes my mouth, which makes a kind of
clop
. Before I have time to recover, he pushes the door lever and jumps into the snow.

“My board's stowed under the bus. Shut the door!” He disappears around the side of the coach, and I pull on the door lever and race back down to Alice, my face aflame.

“Where is Mr. Taylor now?”

“Past the cars,” says Alice from the hatch. “Have you locked the doors?”

“Smitty's gone out to fetch his snowboard so we can barricade them.”

Alice drops down from the hatch. “Tell me I didn't hear you right.”

“Don't worry.” I smile halfheartedly. “He'll only be a second. You said Mr. Taylor was moving really slowly —”

“Oh my god oh my god oh my god . . .” Alice runs blindly to the front of the coach. “Smitty's outside? We can't lock this thing?” A loud
clank
comes from underneath the bus and she screams. “He's going to get in! He's going to kill us!”

“That's just Smitty.” I pull myself up to the hatch to make sure. Mr. Taylor is still on course. He's not fast, but fast enough to make it to the bus if Smitty lingers. “Open the door and help him!”

Alice looks up at me. “Are you totally mental? If you think I'm opening that door, you are living on Planet Crazy.”

“Yeah?” I jump down and push past her. “Is that the planet where everyone randomly drops down dead and teachers go all monstery? Because I think we're already living there.” I'm at the door lever before she can answer back, and I thump it. It doesn't move. I try again. No damn diff. There's a bashing noise at the door. Alice screams again. It's Smitty, waving desperately from the other side of the glass.

“I can't get it open!” I shout at him, trying the lever again. It refuses to move. I look at Alice. “Help me!”

“No way!” Alice backs down the bus aisle.

Smitty is kicking the door now; then I see him bend. He's trying to push the Open Sesame button on his side of the glass. My stomach flips as a dark shape looms into view behind him. Mr. Taylor has arrived. I lift my snow-booted foot and with an almighty force, kick the frickin' lever like it's responsible for every goddamn crappy thing that's ever happened to me. The doors open and Smitty falls inside, snowboard first.

“Shut it!” he cries, but my attention is not on him. Mr. Taylor is filling the space behind him, roaring, fingers clawing toward Smitty, his bloody eyes straining from their sockets. I pull the lever back with all my might, but it's bent. I must have broken it.

“I can't move it!”

Smitty turns and whacks Mr. Taylor over the head with his board. Frankenteacher's monster stumbles back from the door momentarily. I kick the lever again. Still stuck. With a deathly moan, Mr. T shakes himself — blood and saliva flying from his mouth like water from the fur of a wet dog — and attacks a second time. Blocking his way with the snowboard, Smitty tries to reach across and pull the doors shut, but it's no good. I abandon the lever and, against every instinct in my body, hurl myself down the steps and tug at the doors. Smitty is holding Mr. Taylor at bay, but the teacher is a breath away — and I smell it, like rancid, rotting fish-sick. Suddenly there is a rush of wind above. Alice appears over the front seat barrier rail like some kind of avenging angel, whirls the binoculars around her head on their strap, and thwacks Mr. Taylor full on and fabulous in the face.

“That's for the double detention, you moron!”

He is still and perfectly upright for a second, then he pirouettes away from us, an arm and a leg making a graceful arc to the side, and falls softly into the snow and out of sight. The doors, finally free, slide deliberately into place. Smitty slots the board across them and collapses, panting.

“Woo-hoo!” Alice punches the air with her manicured hand.

The bus starts up with a jolt.

The driver, awake now and rolling in his seat, reaches for the hand brake with his bandaged hand, and revs the engine violently.

“Stay behind the line, kids!” he gurgles.

I cling on to the rail and the bus lurches backward into the Mini with a
thud
. The driver cranks the gear stick and we leap forward. There is a crunch, the bus stalls, and the driver passes out again and slithers out of his seat.

I realize I'm huddled on the floor, my arms still clinging to the rail above. Like a nervous crab, I tentatively crawl sideways out of my space and crouch by the driver. He's still breathing.

“Everyone all right?” I call out.

“Been better.” Smitty is curled below me in the stairwell, rubbing his head.

“Where did Mr. Taylor go?” I peek through the windshield. Carefully. This is when they come back. In the movies, this is when they jump out at you and smash through the window. It always happens. If you look though a keyhole, you get your eye poked out; if you look in a mirror, the killer's behind you. It's like the law or something.

“Did you see how I hit him?” Alice skips up behind me, oblivious to all laws and full of glee. Her blond hair sticks out at a weird angle.
Ha! So she's not
always
perfect
.

I pick another window and peer out again. “Oh. I think I see legs. Sticking out from under the bus.”

“What's he doing there?” Smitty shoves in beside me at the window. I can feel the heat radiating off his body. It's oddly comforting. Then he's off again, climbing over the seats.

“Is he moving?” Alice says.

“I'll just open the doors and peek out . . . ,” Smitty says.

“No!” we both cry.

“
Very
joking.” Smitty clambers up through the hatch. I listen as he walks carefully across the roof of the bus, pauses, then returns to the hatch and lowers himself down again. “Think we just ran over our teacher.” He grins. “Do you think that'll get us expelled?”

I gasp. “You're kidding me?”

“Yeah, I am,” Smitty says. “Under the circumstances, I think they'd only suspend us.”

“You know what I'm talking about.”

He gives me his most sincere smile. “Mr. T is pavement pizza.”

“Oh, gross!” Alice curls her lip in disgust. “Still, he totally had it coming.”

I'm taking a moment. I'm trying to look busy, tending to the driver, but really, I'm taking a moment. We all are. Smitty's back up pacing on the roof, Alice seems to be looting the overhead compartments — but actually, we just need a few seconds to calm the hell down.

We've left the driver where he fell. It's not very dignified — or even practical, as he's blocking the aisle — but it'll have to do for now. I check his pulse on his good wrist, like my dad taught me. It's weak, but regular. I adjust his bandage and make sure he's breathing OK, and I even place a sweater under his head to cushion it. There's a bulge in his jacket pocket; I only hesitate a moment before I fish for whatever lies within. A phone. The screen is blank: no reception.

“See if you can get this to work.” I throw the phone to Alice, who catches it deftly.

Hopping over the driver's body, I shimmy under the steering wheel into the driver's seat.

I turn the ignition one notch and gingerly press the radio's
ON
button. Static blasts out of the speakers, making me jump.

Following my lead, Smitty switches the TV on. White fuzz fills the screen.

Snow on the outside, snow on the inside. So much for technology.

“What about the CB radio?” Smitty points to a small black box, partially hidden under the armrest. “My uncle had one in his basement. It's how they used to hook up with total strangers before the Internet.” He winks. “Hand me the mouthpiece.”

I'm guessing he means the black round thing attached to the small box by a long curly wire. I oblige.

“Now flick that switch to turn it on.”

A small button on the side. I do so. A static sound hisses out of the box and the number 14 appears in red on a little display.

Smitty presses something on the side of the mouthpiece, and there's silence. “Hello?” he says into it. “Is there anyone on this channel? Breaker-break, Breaker-break?”

I look at him questioningly. He shrugs.

“Saw it in a movie,” he mutters. “Try twisting that knob and changing the channel.”

As I turn the knob, the red numbers click up to read 15, then 16, then 17. Still nothing but static. Then 18, 19 . . .

“Stop!” Smitty shouts. “I can hear someone.”

There are voices — quiet and distorted, but voices all the same. I hardly dare breathe.

“What are they saying? Can you speak to them?” Alice shouts.

“Mayday, Mayday,” says Smitty.

The voices continue, as if unhearing.

“Help us, somebody!” Alice shouts.

“You have to press the button, Malice,” Smitty sneers. He demonstrates. “Is there anybody there? We need help. Repeat, we need help urgently! Come on, people! This is no joke!”

We listen hard. The voices keep talking, undecipherable.

“Attention!” shouts Smitty.
“Au secours! Au secours!”

I shoot him a look. “What, we're in France suddenly?”

“Anything's worth a try,” he says, clicking the button on the mouthpiece over and over. “I think I can do Morse code for SOS, but then again I might be ordering takeout.”

I crack a smile. “I'll skip the pavement pizza.”

He grins back.

“Look,” says Alice, leaning in, “I'm sorry to break up your special weirdo bonding moment, but we need to get help.” She dangles the driver's phone between her finger and thumb. “The only thing on this phone is the driver's ear cheese, and Einstein here can't even figure out how to use the radio.” She bats her eyelashes at Smitty. “We should find a landline and call the police or the army, or something. Get them to come and rescue us.
Très
quick.”

Smitty gestures to the door. “Be my guest and lead the way, Malice. I'll be right behind you.”

“Loser,” spits Alice.

Smitty puckers his lips. “Ooh, call me another name. I love it.”

Alice hurls the driver's phone at Smitty, who ducks and drops the radio mouthpiece. Both phone and radio smash against the window, and the voices coming from the receiver stop.

“Great job, guys!” I delve for the radio and try to make it come to life again. A crack now runs down the length of the mouthpiece, and a blue wire is sticking out.
Shit.
I thrust it into Smitty's hands. “You're a boy, aren't you? Go on and fix it.”

Alice is right. Action is needed. I head down the aisle, picking the binoculars off the floor where one of my feckless pseudo-buddies has thoughtfully thrown them. Climbing up to the hatch, I hoist myself up to the roof as Smitty did. My arms burn with the effort, but I'm not going to let them see me struggle. The snow is holding off, but it won't be too long before the light starts to go. Scrambling up onto the slippery surface and standing carefully, I look all around the parking lot and peer through the binoculars into the café.