“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.
Now’s my chance at last. I’ve been putting this off for way too long.
“I’ll check out the bathroom,” I tell Smitty. “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. Ten feet away, max. 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 — Joe Cool 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 pole-vault the wall or bash the door down.
Definitely not safe here. Definitely have to move. Before terror freezes
me to this most inglorious 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 snaps. “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.
“Shut up 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 in the john with Albino Boy.”
I pick myself up, and Pete instantly retracts his legs into himself like
> a hermit crab.
“Don’t call him that. He was hiding in here,” I say. “He was in the café
and knows something, but he’s kind of hyperventilating.”
“Ha!” Smitty laughs. “What else is new?” 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,
numb-nuts,” 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 to call the police. 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 closet.” 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?”
As the words come out, I see why.
Following the bus are people, stumbling through the snow. Arms out,
heads lolling, feet dragging . . .
“And to complete the introductions, Gareth,” says Smitty, holding out
his hand toward the approaching mob, “may I present to you the rest of
our class from All Soul’s Academy.”
It’s them all right. Some more animated now than I’ve ever seen
before.
The bus is at the entrance to the gas station. Skidding on the icy
ground, it heads past the pumps and directly toward the store.
“Slow down!” I scream, like he can hear.
Smitty grabs me. “He ain’t gonna.”
As the bus roars toward us with a sickening inevitability, I’m only
aware of Pete’s white hair ducking behind a shelf and Smitty’s hand in
the small of my back, pushing me to the ground. There’s an almighty
crash and everything collapses, burying us in an ocean of chips, cookies,
and cheap store shelves.
I close my eyes and wait for the death to come.
For a lovely moment time is suspended and all is still under the debris.
Quiet, dark, warm, and strangely comforting, like a cocoon.
I can smell motor oil, sugary doughnuts, and a sharper, sweeter scent.
Raspberries? Something tickles my nose . . . I open my eyes and blow a
straggle of hair out of my face. Not my hair, Smitty’s. His head is buried in the crook of my neck, and he’s out cold. He uses raspberry shampoo? What a girl. I chuckle to myself. Kind of embarrassing how he’s lying across me, though, trapping one of my arms. His weight is heavy across my chest, and one of his arms is almost cradling my head. Lying but not moving. That
Undead (ARC) Page 4
