Undead (9780545473460) (4 page)

I can just make out the shadows of people slumped across tables.

My breath shortens. One thing to hear Alice tell it; quite another to see it myself. I scan for any signs of life — and spot a building, lights shining through a line of trees to the left of the café.

Bingo.

I shout down, “There's a gas station — they'll have a phone! We just need to make a run for it.” I lower myself back into the bus and struggle to close the hatch.

Alice is slumped in a seat looking bored, and Smitty is fiddling with the radio.

“Time to move.” I get my coat from the rack above my seat. “We need a phone.”

Smitty looks up. “Yeah, and who knows if Mr. T has any dribbling friends out there, eh?”

“We don't know that. Everybody else is still doing dead in the diner.”

“Hah!” Alice sits bolt upright. “But for how long? Do you know
nothing
?” She stares at me like I have the mental capacity of a potato. “They die, they come back to life, they eat our brains!”

“Maybe they have food poisoning. Maybe Mr. Taylor was kind of sick or rabid or something, and was coming to us for help?”
Oh, the lameness.

“Are you
blind
?” Alice narrows her glare. “That was
not
Mr. Taylor anymore, that was a zom —”

“Stop!” I shout. “Do not say . . . that word.”

“Why not?” She gets out of her seat and walks right up to me, head cocked. “Because that's what he was.”

I want to slap her. Because she's right — again. That in itself is as bad an omen as a bunch of Shakespearian horses eating each other and the dead rising from their graves. The latter of which it would seem we already have.

“How come you know so much about them, eh, Malice?” Smitty is in her face. “You're working up quite a froth there.” He points to the corner of her mouth. “Maybe we should put you into quarantine before you
turn
.”

Alice yelps and slaps his hand away.

I stomp to the door. “We go — now.”

Smitty is behind me. “Are you sure you want to risk it?”

“I'm sure you do.” I'm also counting on it. “It'll be getting dark soon. And real, real cold. So we go while we still can.”

“
I'm
not going anywhere.” Alice, newly triumphant — glowing, even — returns to her seat.

“Good.” I'm at the door. “We need someone to stay here and play nurse.” I point to the driver. “And keep trying the phones and the radio. We'll be back as soon as we can. Barricade the door behind us, but be ready to let us in.” I'm gambling that she won't lock us out indefinitely, if only because that'll mean she'll be on her own permanently. Like I said, gambling.

Smitty and I step out into the snow. As I hear the doors close behind us, there's a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. We immediately forge ahead, no nonsense. Smitty's legs are longer and he can get through the deep snow much faster.

“That way.” I point to the left of the trees, although Smitty doesn't turn around. “Let's follow the road down.”

He shakes his head. “We should cut through the trees. More direct route.”

My stomach clenches. The spooky quotient is off the hook. At least on the road, nothing can jump out at us. And the snow on the road is less deep, making it easier to run if something does appear. I glance back at the bus. Alice's face is pressed up against the window, pale and ghostly. Suddenly I know with absolute certainty that if Smitty and I are ambushed, we are on our own.

We reach the trees and pause beside a large sycamore, silent and laden with whiteness.

“Lights are on.” Smitty points past the gas pumps to the store beyond. “No movement. Think they're all dead, too?”

I can't stop a shiver. “Only one way to find out.”

We move carefully toward the front of the store, low and quick, then up to its glass doors. I reach for the handle.

“Wait!” Smitty rasps. “There's someone by the counter!”

I look. Sure enough, I can see a man's head over the top of the cash register. His face is pale and moist, and there's a tuft of dusty black hair. A cigarette sticks out of the corner of his mouth, a twist of smoke curling into the air as he stares at us. For a moment I wonder if it's a floating head, then a hand snatches the cigarette away from the mouth.

Thankyougod
. A real live grown-up person to make everything better.

“Piss off!” A voice crackles over a loudspeaker. “The door is locked. Get lost!”

Smitty bangs on the glass. “Let us in, mister! Come on, we need help!”

“No!” the man shouts. “Go away!”

“Sir, we're just kids!” I shout back. “And our bus driver needs a doctor. You've got to help us!”

“If you know what's good for you, you'll sod off now!” the man yells, and disappears behind the counter.

“We need a phone, you tosser!” Smitty kicks the door.

I spot a sign,
CUSTOMER TOILETS
, with an arrow pointing around the corner. “Come on,” I call to Smitty. “Maybe there's a way in at the back.”

Sure enough, there is.

“In here.” Smitty runs ahead and pulls me through a door, like it was his idea. It's dark inside. There's a short corridor with two doors on either side. One is marked
TOILET
, the other
PRIVATE
. We try that one.

It's darker still inside. I reach for the switch. Yellow light blinks on. Thankfully, nobody's home. It's a janitor's closet, with a second door at the other end.

“There's our way in.” Smitty tries the handle. “Locked. Bet we can force it open with something in here.” He starts to search the shelves.

I know the time has come. I've been putting this off for way too long.

“I'll check out the bathroom,” I tell Smitty. “I'll be right back.” I leave the room and quietly open the door marked
TOILET
. Three stalls and a single basin. I duck into the first cubicle, silently lock the door, unzip my jeans, and sit down with a shudder. Life-endangering situations or not, when you gotta go, you gotta go.

Afterward, everything seems better. I sit for a moment, take a deep breath. It will all be OK. We'll get into the store, we'll call the cops, and get out of this hellhole. I'll be back home in a few hours, eating my mother's microwaved food and dodging her annoying questions with a comforting and familiar irritability. I rub my face, shake my shoulders, and allow myself to let out a deep, heartfelt sigh.

Something in the next stall answers me with a terrible, death-rattling moan.

For a second, I wonder if I imagined the moan. I only do this because I
want
to have imagined it. I want it so badly.

I saw a bear once. I was peeing then, too. We were hiking in the mountains back home in the USA — one of the last trips Dad took me on before he got sick. Anyway, I snuck off to take a pee, because I was freaked beyond all perspective that my dad might see me squatting. Like he'd look. Like he'd care. So anyway, there I was, and as I was pulling up my pants, there was the bear, too. Perhaps ten feet away. Beautiful, glossy, and fat, looking at me with molasses eyes. I crouched low, back down into the grass that was wet with my pee, and looked around for a rock or a stick. Any kind of weapon, but there was nothing. When I glanced up again, the bear was gone. Later I convinced myself it had never been there. I hadn't seen it. Who sees a bear?

Likewise, just now, I imagined the moan. Clearly. Or it was a gurgling pipe, or Smitty. Yeah, that's it — the toad has followed me in here and is trying to freak me out.

The moan comes again.

It's not a pipe, it's not Smitty, and it's not a damn bear.

I brace myself against the cubicle walls and slowly climb up onto the toilet bowl, ever-so-quietly pulling up my jeans and the zipper.

Whatever is next door cries out again, the noise wobbling and building to a wail.

Panic squeezes my throat. I glance at the door.
Locked.
Phew. Still, there's a gap below big enough to crawl under. Not to mention that whatever is next door might simply vault the wall or bash the door down.

Definitely not safe here. Definitely have to move. Before terror freezes me to the spot.

It's panting now: panting, wheezing, and moaning.

How quick can it run? If it's a thing like Mr. Taylor was a thing, then probably not very quickly. But there I go, gambling again. I shut my eyes tight and visualize unlocking the latch, sprinting to the bathroom door, flinging it open, then slamming it behind me — maybe finding a way to jam it shut — and shouting for Smitty, who has hopefully found a way into the store by now.

Probably, maybe, hopefully.
Not good words.

Silence. I open my eyes and ready myself to move, glancing down at my feet bridging the toilet bowl. It's a tad gross that I haven't been able to flush, but if it's yellow, let it mellow . . . and run like hell-o. I have to make a move for the door, and fast.

As I prepare to leap, there is a new noise.

A familiar, rasping noise.

Last time I checked, the Undead have no use for an inhaler.

Leaning against the wall, I straighten up until I can almost see into the next-door cubicle.
Think brave.
S
tanding on my tiptoes, I force myself to peek.

A boy, crouching on the toilet, his hands covering his face. The white wispy hair is unmistakable. It's Pete Moore. He of the see-through skin and bus trip stink bomb. Seems he likes to check out the bathrooms anywhere he can. My heart beats a little slower.

I whisper, “Hey!”

“Whaa — !” Pete unfurls like a falling kitten, legs and arms spread, butt sinking into the toilet bowl.

“It's OK, it's just me!” I hiss.

Pete looks up at me with wild eyes.

“I'm in your class, remember?” I try to sound reassuring. “Are we alone in here?”

“Pah!” Pete scuttles into the corner of his stall. “I don't know . . . Why are you asking me? Where did you come from anyway?” He's babbling. “Were you in the café? Because if you were, then you should stay away from me. Go back there and don't come anywhere near me . . .”

“You were there? Did you see what happened?”

“Of course I saw it!” he snarls. “I saw the death come!” Then he starts to wail.

“Shh!” I urge him desperately. “Unlock the door and let me in, OK?”

“Let me in, she says!” Pete laughs hysterically. “Let me in so I can
chew on your arm
! Would you like fries with that?” He cackles to himself, wicked crazy. “I don't think so.”

Trying not to examine the grimy floor, I jump down, drop to all fours, and shimmy under the partition. As I arrive on Pete's side of the wall, his manic laughter turns to shrieking, and he kicks out at me. He's slow and I dodge the first strike, but the second lands on the top of my arm, deadening it.

“I'm trying to help you, you nut job!”

No choice but to crawl on top of his legs to try and subdue him, but he's still screeching, and wriggling like a worm in a puddle.

“Be quiet already! If there are any more of those things around, you'll bring them right to us!”

By some miracle, Pete falls quiet, his arms across his face. He stares at me, head twisted, one pale green eye unblinking and bloodshot. He nods.

“Good.” I allow myself a tiny dot of relief. “That's good. Just stay calm. It's all gonna be OK.”

There's a bang and the door flies open. Pete and I nearly shed our skins.

“Found a boyfriend?”

Smitty is standing in the doorway, a screwdriver in one hand. “Got the shop door open, if you're interested. Or you can stay here on the floor with Albino Boy.”

I pick myself up, and Pete instantly retracts his legs into himself like a hermit crab.

“He was hiding in here,” I say. “He was in the café and knows something, but he's not making any sense.”

“Ha!” Smitty laughs. “No change there.” He leans down to grab Pete's arm and hoists him up in a single movement. Pete springs back against the wall of the bathroom stall, trembling violently. “I'm not the enemy, numbnuts,” Smitty sighs. “Let's motor.”

We head out of the bathroom and through the janitor's closet to the door leading into the store, which is now ajar. Pete lingers, wheezing again, and muttering.

“The death came, and it will come again. The death came, and it will come again. The death —”

“Shut him up, will you?” Smitty says to me.

“Like he does anything I say.”

“You found him,” he says. “We're going in.”

Gripping the screwdriver firmly, Smitty slowly opens the door. The fluorescent light of the store spills into the small room. He listens for a moment, gives me a thumbs-up, then slips inside.

I turn to Pete, who glares at me. I sigh.
Fine.
Stay here and wait for the death to come and come again.

I follow Smitty, creeping behind shelves of chips and cookies and cigarette lighters, making for where we'd seen the man's head disappear behind the cash register.

Smitty leaps onto the counter, brandishing the screwdriver.

“Surprise, surprise!” he screams.

A battle cry sounds from under the counter and the man springs up and swipes at Smitty's feet with a bat. Who knew they had baseball in Scotland? I step back abruptly and the edge of a shelf bites into my back. Smitty has dodged the first swipe, but here comes the second. He jumps into the air as the man's bat clatters air fresheners, breath mints, and bottles of motor oil onto the ground.

“Stop it!” I know the words are futile before they've even left my mouth.

Smitty hurls himself away from the third swipe of the bat and falls against a cabinet of hot pastries. The man hurdles the counter and brings the bat down. Glass and doughnuts fly everywhere as Smitty ducks and skitters backward on his hands through a slick of motor oil that is fast filling the floor. I see my chance. I fling myself at the back of the man's knees, forcing him off balance and making him skid in the oil. He falls hard, and there is a smack as his head hits the floor. The bat flies out of his hands. I stretch out an arm and make the catch. Dad would have been so proud.

“I said stop!” I hold up the bat, threatening to swing. “Or I'll flatten you both.” Spit flies out of my mouth in a really attractive way.

From behind the shelves, there is laughter. “She's not kidding.” Pete pokes his head out.

“Shut it, Albino!” Smitty shouts.

“You shut it!” The man on the floor jabs a finger toward Smitty. “Crazy kid attacking me with a knife. You deserve to be locked up!”

“It was a screwdriver, sir.” I grit my teeth. “And I'm sure he didn't mean it. He apologizes — don't you, Smitty?”

Smitty grimaces.

“Don't you?” I grip the bat tighter.

Smitty rolls his eyes and nods.

“There you go. We're all friends.” For the first time, I notice a name tag on the man's shirt, hanging askew, which reads
GARETH
. I turn to the man, keeping the bat held high just in case. “Gareth? I'm Bobby, this is Smitty, and that's Pete. We need your help. There are people injured and dying; we don't know what's going on and we have to call the police.”

Gareth sits up and rubs his head. “Psycho teenagers are all I need. But if you've come looking for a phone, you've come to the wrong place.” He pulls himself up against the counter. “The line's dead.”

“He's lying!” Smitty is up again.

“Why would I?” Gareth says, not unreasonably. “Think I want to be stuck here, either?” He throws the receiver at Smitty. “Check it yourself. We're all shafted.” He walks around the counter and sits down on the chair, holding his head in his hands as if checking for cracks.

I figure I can lower the bat. “Do you know what's happening to everyone?”

Gareth smiles nastily. “The phones died. My boss went up to the café to check what was going on. He comes back and passes out, and I try to help him. I think he's had a heart attack, don't I? He's out cold and not breathing. Dead as a doornail. Next thing I know, he's grabbing at me and trying to bite.” He gestures to my newly acquired weapon. “He kept the bat under the counter for late-night trouble. Never occurred to him that
he
might be the trouble. I smashed him to hell and back.”

I look closely at the bat for the first time. There's a red patch and a clump of hair stuck to the end. My gut twists.

“What did you do to him?”

Gareth taps a cigarette out of a packet. “Hitting him only made him angrier. Nothing much I could do . . .” He lights the cigarette, pockets the lighter, and exhales deeply. “Until I found this.” He picks up an object from the counter. It's a metal spike attached to a small block of wood, with small pieces of paper skewered to it. Sales receipts. Gareth chuckles. “He never did like balancing the books . . . said they used to do his head in.” A gloop of blood drips from the spike. “Well, they did this time.”

I gulp. “What happened?”

Gareth fixes me with his dark stare. “He fell on it.” He thrusts the spike. “Up through the eye, popped like a grape.”

“Cool!” Smitty says.

“No,” I mutter. “That's horrible.”

“Hey, it's not so bad,” Smitty says. “We just ran over our teacher, remember?”

“Which one?” Pete asks.

“Mr. Taylor,” I say, numb.

“Yes!” Pete claps his hands in delight.

I look at Gareth. “So what did you do next?”

He shrugs. “Tried the phone. Line was dead. Went up to the café. Everyone was dead. Didn't hang around to see if they'd come back to life. Came back here and locked the body in the storage cupboard.” He flicks a finger at a door in the corner. “Just in case.”

“Didn't you even think to look for a phone in the café?” Smitty's face curls with scorn.

“Yeah, I hung around to go crazy like my boss,” Gareth says. “Great idea.”

“So we just wait here, right?” I say. “This is a gas station; people must be in and out all the time.”

Gareth laughs. “This isn't your average day, lassie.”

“He's right,” Smitty adds. “Have you seen anyone arrive since we got here?” He looks up toward the café. “Either it's the snow, or —”

“Or whatever's going on here is going on everywhere.”

Nobody speaks. I think we're all ignoring what I just said, but it's out there all the same.

I chance a smile. “Gareth, I'm thinking you're about the same age as all of us added up. Do you have a car?”

Gareth shakes his head. “Not today.” His face reddens. “I got a lift.”

I brighten. “Fine. So they'll be back to pick you up at the end of your shift, won't they? We wait.”

“Or we hot-wire a car,” Smitty says. “Or drive the bus.”

Gareth looks exasperated. “Have you seen the weather?”

“Let's at least try!” Smitty shouts.

Before Gareth can answer, an engine roars into life outside and a large shadow lurches around the trees, heading toward the gas pumps. It's the school bus.

“Score!” Smitty shouts. “Hello, Mr. Mean Machine All-Terrain Bus Driver!”

We scramble to the window and watch as the bus leaves the road and mounts the bank. Narrowly missing the last of the sycamores, it careers down toward us.

“He's going too fast,” I say. “Why's he going so fast?”