Undead (ARC)

by McKay, Kirsty

  “Move!” Smitty is behind me now, at the driver’s seat. He slams the

  lever and the door unfolds shut, missing me by a hair’s breadth.

  “Hey!” I protest, then fall back in shock as the screech appears at the

  door, slapping hard and fast, trying to get in. Through the glass I see

  baby blue and yellow, a bundle of blond hair, and shiny pink nails scraping the glass.

  “Open the door!” I shout at Smitty.

  “Are you crazy?”

  “Now!”

  When he doesn’t obey, I scrabble up the steps and hit the lever myself

  before he can stop me.

  The door opens, and a manic figure propels itself into the bus.

  “Shut the door!” it screams.

  I go for the lever but Smitty is way ahead of me this time and the door

  slides shut again.

  The figure lies panting on the steps. It’s Alice Hicks. She lifts her

  head, black mascara dripping down her pretty face.

  “Dead!” she screams. “Everybody’s dead!”

  Alice Hicks looks good even when she is lying on the floor crying.

  When I cry — which admittedly is about twice a century — I look utterly destroyed. Beet-red face. Tiny little pig eyes and runny snot nose. It’s a genuine talent, looking pretty while traumatized. So if this is for real, I won’t just be shocked, I’ll be impressed.

  “Dead?” I say. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your friends are dead?” Smitty leans back casually on the driver’s

  seat. “Have you only just noticed?”

  “It’s true!” Alice’s voice trembles through the sobs. “In the café. Go

  and look if you don’t believe me!”

  “All right.” Smitty springs up from his seat.

  “No!” Alice says, raising herself to face him. “You can’t go out there!”

  Her legs buckle and she collapses onto the steps again.

  “Why not?” Smitty won’t be put off.

  “Get back!” she screams.

  Smitty holds his hands over his ears, his face in exaggerated pain.

  But there’s something about the way she’s slumped on the steps — the

  dirty, wet steps — wearing her rah-rah red pep squad skirt. This is

  genuine — at least, she believes it.

  I nudge Smitty out of the way and offer her a hand. “Come and sit up

  here. Did you hurt yourself?”

  “Keep him away from the door!” Alice wails, bracing herself in the

  stairwell, looking surprisingly immovable in spite of the flow of tears

  and the baby blue ski jacket.

  “OK, he’s sitting down over there.” I point at a seat a couple of rows

  back and look at Smitty.

  “I am?” Smitty says.

  “You are.” I grit my teeth, like some kind of genuine hard-ass. Smitty

  makes a face but — remarkably — obeys. Even more remarkably, Alice lets

  me help her into a seat. “So take a breath” — I take one of my own — “and

  tell us what you saw.”

  “I told you, everyone is dead,” she repeats, jaw clenched. “I was in the café, I went to use the ladies’ room — yes, even I have to go sometimes, Smitty,” she snarls before he has the chance to say anything. “I came back and everyone was sort of lying across the tables . . . like they were asleep. At first I thought it was some lame joke” — her brown eyes flash with scorn — “I mean, hello, très embarrassant, but then I went up to Libby and Em and Shanika, and I shook Em and she fell onto the floor.” Alice’s face crumples and here come the tears again. “She wasn’t breathing. No

  one was breathing!”

  “Are you sure?” I have to ask.

  “Of course I’m sure!”

  “How did it happen?” I crouch down beside her. It looks like I’m being

  sympathetic, but really my legs suddenly feel wobbly. “Were they sick

  or something?”

  “I’m supposed to know?” Alice yells. “They were all just lying there,

  the whole class!”

  “What about everyone else? The waiters, other people in the

  restaurant?”

  “All dead.” She shudders. “On the floor, on the chairs, behind

  the counters.”

  “Mr. Taylor and Ms. Fawcett?” I turn to Smitty, like he’s suddenly the

  sane one. “We have to find them.”

  “No!” screams Alice. “Mr. Taylor was there, I saw him, standing by

  the sandwiches.”

  Phew. World order is restored. “Has he called for help?”

  Alice shakes her head. “I ran up to him. He turned around . . . his face

  was yuck. His eyes were weird, all red . . .”

  “He has pathetic Man-Flu,” Smitty says.

  “More than that!” She pauses for effect. “He was dead, too.”

  “What?” I say.

  “He grabbed at me,” Alice says. “I ran . . . out . . . he tried to get me.”

  “You’re so full of it!” Smitty squeals with laughter. “What’s today’s

  date, April Fools’? We’re supposed to believe that everyone’s tombstoned

  from instant food poisoning, and Mr. T has risen again and is trying to

  kill you?” He jumps up and holds out his arms, moaning.

  “Believe it!” Alice thumps her fists on the armrests. “Do you really

  think I’d even bother to speak to you two unless everyone else was dead?”

  I raise an eyebrow. “She has a point.”

  “She has a lot of nerve, more like,” Smitty says, squinting at her with

  disdain.

  “Fine.” Alice stands up shakily, her pretty retroussé nose in the air.

  “Go and check. But don’t blame me if you end up dead.”

  Smitty steps up.

  “Wait.” Before I know it, I’ve planted myself firmly between them.

  Not a great place to be, but right now, very necessary. “We need to call

  the police, an ambulance, don’t we? We should stay here until they come.”

  Alice’s face widens in horror. “My phone . . . it’s with my stuff! Oh my

  god!” Fresh tears. “I left my CoutureCandy bag on the table!”

  “Oh, the tragedy!” Smitty joins in, girlying it up. “The dead people

  might be . . . touching it!”

  “Shut up! You know nothing!” Alice cries. “It’s one of a kind!”

  Enough of this. I have a damn phone. I rush to my seat and snatch

  my backpack down from the shelf. The phone’s in the inside pocket. I’ve

  barely used it since my mother bought it for me when we arrived in the

  UK. What was the point? No friends to text me in this dumb, damp

  country. But maybe now it might not be completely worthless.

  Searching for signal . . . the screen reads. I hold it up to the window.

  “Not working?” Smitty bounces past. “When did you get it, the Dark

  Ages?” He pulls a smart phone out of his back pocket. Nice. He probably stole it. “Now, this little baby will pick up a signal on the moon.” He stares at the screen. For a little too long.

  “But not here?” Alice is triumphant.

  “Give it a minute,” he says. “We are in the middle of Nowheresville.”

  He presses a few buttons, like that will help. “Shiznuts. What’s wrong

  with it?”

  “No reception.” My teeth are gritted again; I’m going to grind them

  down to stumps at this rate. I toss my phone-a-saurus onto the seat. “We

  have to find the driver. He’s probably got a radio.” I turn to Alice. “Did you see him when you were outside?”

  Alice cocks her head to one side in a way she clearly thinks is super—

  cute. “What, you mean when I wa
s running for my life through a snow

  blizzard? Um, that would be a no.”

  I don’t bother with a reply — mainly because I can’t spare the

  brainpower — and rush down the bus to the back window. The snow has

  eased off a little. I can just make out the shape of a car. “We need to go check behind the bus. I can’t see anything from here.”

  “See ya.” Alice sits in a seat halfway up the aisle. “I’m not moving.”

  “I am,” says Smitty. He’s at the door before I can react. “You stay,” he

  shouts at me. “In case Malice here gets the idea of shutting me out.”

  He hits the lever for the door and runs lightly down the steps.

  “Be careful.” I reach the top of the steps.

  He grins and grabs at his own neck, like some ghoul is dragging him

  off. The snow crunches as he disappears around the side of the bus.

  “Shut the door!” Alice hisses.

  “Give him a second. He’ll be right back with the driver.”

  Fat flakes of snow are falling rapidly again. The wind has dropped

  and the air is so full of silence it almost hurts. The patch of red whatever on the ground is still there, but it’s diluted pink now, with new snow beginning to cover it. My ears strain, and my hand hovers over the door

  lever, ready to push it shut if anything leaps out of the whiteness.

  “Hey!”

  I jump and bash my knuckles against the steering wheel.

  “Give us a hand, Newbie!”

  Smitty’s voice. I climb down the first step. “What’s the matter?”

  “Come here!”

  “Don’t.” Alice rises in her seat, but doesn’t step into the aisle. “Stay!”

  “He needs help.” I linger on the steps.

  “Oi!” Smitty appears at the door, and I jolt back onto the top step on

  my behind. Stylish. He looks up at me. “It’s the driver. I can’t carry him on my own.”

  “Carry him?” I stand, resisting the urge to rub my tailbone.

  “Quick!”

  And he’s gone. I fix Alice with my steeliest of steelies.

  “Do not lock us out.”

  “You’ve got two minutes,” Alice shouts back.

  I step out into the white, onto the path trodden in the snow by my

  classmates. Avoiding the pink, I step off the path and immediately sink

  up to my knees. Awesome. It’s just snow. Steadying myself against

  the side of the bus, I place my foot in the first of Smitty’s footprints,

  following them. The snow is shallower where the bus has blocked it and

  I move more easily along the length of the vehicle and round to the back,

  where a Mini Cooper with a British flag–painted roof is wedged against

  the bus’s bumper.

  “Here.” Smitty’s head pops up from behind the car. “Help me

  drag him.”

  I get closer. Oh god. The driver is lying motionless in the snow, his legs underneath the car.

  “Is he OK?” Stupid Question.

  “Not a scratch on him,” Smitty says. “Except for his hand.”

  He holds up the driver’s right wrist. There’s a deep gash, and thick

  blood is pumping slowly down his arm. A hot, hyper wave of adrenaline

  flushes through me.

  “We need to bandage him — quickly.” My hand shoots up to my neck

  for my scarf. My mother’s best cashmere scarf, actually. Pale lilac with

  blue stripes. She’d tucked it round my neck the morning we left, in place

  of a hug. I don’t even like the scarf, but the look on her face was so out of character — like she was actually going to miss me for once — that I’d kept it on. But there are other things at stake now. I unwrap it quickly and wind it around the driver’s forearm as tightly as I dare. I have nothing

  to fasten it with.

  “Here.” Smitty drops a small, black circle into my hand. It’s a pin — a

  badge — with a laughing skull and the words Death Throes on it. The name of a band. I hope. I fix the scarf in place.

  “Should we move him?” I look up at Smitty, and my eyes fill with

  snowflakes.

  “Yeah. He’ll freeze otherwise.” He hunkers down and starts pulling

  the guy up, somehow. “Luckily for us he’s a short-arse. I’ll hoist him and you get under his other arm.”

  We shuffle upright, and suddenly the driver’s heavy on my shoulder

  and I’m breathing in the uncomfortable warm, sweet scent of middle-aged-man sweat. He lets out a moan.

  “Good, you’re awake,” says Smitty. “Mister, we need to move you. Just

  put one foot in front of the other and we’ll do the rest.”

  We stagger forward, like an odd, three-headed monster, lurching and

  sliding through the snow. Finally, we make it back to the door of the bus.

  It is closed.

  “Malice!” Smitty bangs on the glass. “Let us in, you bloody moose!”

  “Come on, Alice!” I cast a nervous glance toward the café. The falling

  snow is thinning, and I can make out the entrance again. There are dead

  people in there. I can’t see them, but I don’t want to. “Hurry up and open the door!”

  Alice does not appear. The driver grunts, gesturing to a small, metal

  flap on the side of the coach. With numb, wet fingers I open it, and push

  the button I find there. The door opens with a swoosh of relief.

  “I’m gonna kill her,” growls Smitty.

  “Get in line,” I tell him.

  Between us we manage to half push the driver to the top of the steps

  and help him into his chair, where he punches the door lever closed with

  his good hand and passes out.

  “Is he dead?”

  A voice from on high. For a reason that I cannot immediately fathom,

  Alice is standing on top of two seats halfway down the aisle, holding a

  pair of binoculars.

  “You shut the door, you ditz!” starts Smitty.

  “Be grateful.” Alice says, I’m not sure in response to what. “Found

  these in Ms. Fawcett’s stuff.” She waves the binoculars at us. “I was being lookout.” She points to the roof of the bus. There’s an escape hatch. “You can see into the café,” Alice says. “No one’s moving.”

  Smitty is up the aisle pronto. “Here, gimme.” He snatches the binoculars from her and scrambles up to the hatch.

  “Ew, your hands are all sticky,” Alice says. “Oh my god, it’s blood!” she

  squeals, jumping down and wiping her hand on a seat. “Get it off me!”

  she screams. “Is it his?” She points to the driver.

  “Yep.” My voice is hard. “He hurt his wrist and he’s unconscious. We

  need to get him some help. Like now.”

  “Heads up!” Smitty shouts from the hatch. “Here comes Mr. Taylor.”

  “No way,” Alice says.

  “For real?” I climb up on the seats, using the storage shelves on either

  side to pull myself up to the hatch. I poke my head out into the cold air

  and vie for space.

  “He’s coming out.” Smitty holds fast to his position in the hatch. “He’s

  heading this way.”

  “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 messed up.”

 
“And the rest are, too.” 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 elbows against the roof and stare. The teacher’s face looks bruised and greenish-brown, his eyes are

  blackened and shut 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 plop-ping 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 hand—

  bag 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 swiftly.

  “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