Pete nods. “Or there’s a chance we’ll pick up the signal on Smitty’s
smart phone. There might even be a landline that works.” He slides into
the driver’s seat. “Let’s hope this thing will start on fumes.”
“Wait!” I stop his hand from reaching for the ignition. “Can we make
it down the hill? The snow’s even deeper than yesterday.”
Pete hesitates.
“So if we don’t drive, we walk?” Alice says. “Count me out.”
“But what if we can’t get back up here?” I say. “What if there are more
of those . . . people, the bus gets stuck, and we can’t escape?”
“Yeah, you’re right, it’s going to be so much better if we’re on foot,”
Alice snarls. “Anyway, someone has to stay here to take care of him.” She
points to the driver.
I feel a surge of guilt. We’ve pretty much ignored the driver since
we finished mending the window. I approach him. He hasn’t moved at
all. I reach out to touch his hand and his skin feels waxy and cold.
Alice stares. “Is he . . . ?”
I move my palm over his face. There’s a little warm air coming out
of his nostrils. “No. He’s still alive.” But maybe not for much longer.
Something about him has begun to smell, too, but I’m afraid to look at
his other wrist and unwrap the makeshift bandage.
“Whatever we’re doing, we should do it now,” Smitty says. “I’ll check
out the road and clear a path.” He grabs the binoculars and tosses them
to me. “You see if we’re likely to have company.”
<<# break>>
I stand on the roof with Pete and Alice. They followed me, and I
didn’t protest. More eyes. Mother Nature is playing ball; the snow has
stopped falling and the sun is trying its best to break out from behind
a lavender-gray cloud. The air is still, and there’s now just a thin curl of black smoke from the gas station. A last desperate smoke signal. I try not to wonder too hard why nobody has come.
Smitty is riding his board down the road, pausing in places to scrape
the ground.
Alice is trying the phones again. She’s managed to acquire them
all — even Smitty’s prized smart phone — and she’s holding them in her
hands like a deck of cards, shuffling each one to the top, lifting it up,
and checking for a signal. Judging by her pursed mouth, she is holding
a bum hand.
There’s a movement — I catch it out of the corner of my eye and spin
around. A shuffle in the bushes. Steeling myself, I hold the binoculars up.
A blackbird scuttles in the undergrowth, and flies out of the cover with
a cascading shriek of alarm. Only a blackbird. What startled it? I grip
the binoculars tighter. No movement in the bushes now; it was probably
frightened by some snow falling from the tree, or another bird. I shiver.
It has been years since I’ve heard a blackbird, and suddenly I’m sitting in a sandpit, at home — England Home — many years past. Dad is weeding nearby, whistling like the bird. It seems like a long, long time ago. He’d done no gardening in the States, and the blackbirds are different there. I feel a pang of missing him — raw and sudden. It’s not like he’s even going to be there when I get home. If I get home. I can’t help but feel like this whole thing would never have happened if he was still with us. Certainly it never would have happened if my stupid mother’s stupid job hadn’t
made us move back to this stupid country. Still, even if I want to blame
my mother for Dad not being here, it might be a little extreme to
blame all of this monstery stuff on her, too.
A thump vibrates the bus from within.
My heart jumps.
Alice gasps. “What was that?”
Pete rolls his eyes. “Must you scream at everything? Keep your
knickers on. Something’s just fallen off a seat.”
“Are you mental?” Alice shouts. “I didn’t scream!” She turns to me.
“Did I scream?”
I shake my head automatically.
From below us, the noise comes again.
Pete drops to his knees. “The bus driver, then.”
“He came around before, didn’t he?” says Alice. “He does that, that’s
his thing. Wakes up, passes out, wakes up, passes out.”
I crawl to the hatch.
“Slowly,” Pete cautions.
I lift the hatch just a crack. We peep inside. From where I’m lying
I can only see the front of the bus, and there’s no one there. Or they’re
hiding behind a seat. I bob up and look toward the road. Smitty has
climbed back up now. He’s at the entrance to the parking lot. Soon he’ll
be at the bus door.
“I’m going to lift the hatch all the way open,” I whisper to Pete and
Alice. “We need to look in the back.”
Alice clutches the neck of her jacket. Pete nods.
I carefully swing the lid of the hatch all the way over until it rests on
the roof of the bus. We all shift around, three polar bears fishing in an
ice hole, and peep in the other direction.
There is less light in the back of the bus — the improvised barricade
on the back window blocks out the sun — and it takes a few seconds
for my eyes to adjust, but I can see something near the backseat. A
figure, facing away from us, bent over as if fastening shoelaces. Slowly,
it straightens up, vertebra by vertebra. I recognize the regulation blue
coat, the pale blue shirt collar, and thinning gray hair.
“It is the driver!” Alice shouts, her voice light with relief. “Thank god.”
The driver’s head turns around to face the direction of the noise.
Turns around completely. Without the rest of his body following.
Then Alice really does scream.
The driver’s visage rushes into view as if through a zoom lens. A face
of purple and brown, like a bashed-up fruit. His jaw hangs slack, his
head lolls, and there is some kind of green discharge oozing from
his mouth. His eyes are milky, unfocused for a second, then his neck
snaps up straight and his body turns to face the same direction. An
arm is flung out toward us, and my mother’s best cashmere scarf trails
through the air in a bloody arc.
Alice screams again. I grab the hatch lid, shut it tight, and sit on it.
“Oi!”
There’s a shout from the front of the bus. Smitty.
“What’s going on? Let me in, will ya?”
I leap up. “Sit on that!” I command Pete and Alice, and skitter
over to the end of the bus. Smitty is standing by the doors, hands on
hips. “It’s the driver!” I call down to him. “He’s woken up and he’s one
of them!”
Smitty stares up at me as if I am speaking another language. A crash
makes him look farther down the bus, and the expression on his face
turns to sickening comprehension. No further explanation needed.
“We’re stuck up here.”
“How fast is he moving?”
“I don’t know!” I shrug uselessly.
“Let’s see.”
Smitty runs along the side of coach, slaps the window.
“Oi! Mister! Hell-o!”
“What are you doing?”
Smitty tracks back and slaps the next window down.
“That’s right, this way!” he shouts. He moves to the next window and
thumps again. “I’m here!”
> “Stop it!” Alice slithers to the edge of the bus roof on her belly like a
candy-colored salamander. “Don’t make him angry!”
“I can outrun him, easy!” Smitty shouts. “I’ll get him out and
double back.”
“Yes!” Alice cries. “Quickly!”
Smitty reaches the final window, then hits the button on the door.
I realize what won’t happen a second before it doesn’t. Our snowboard
locking system is doing its job too darn well. Smitty pushes the doors,
trying to rattle the board free.
“It’s no good!” he calls up. “Someone is going to have to open it from
the inside.”
“Are you out of your tiny mind?” Alice shouts. “You do it!”
“Like how?” Smitty says. “I can’t get up there.” He jumps and tries to
catch one of the sideview mirrors to hoist himself up, but it’s too high,
even for his monkey skills.
“Then we should jump off!” Alice says. “Leave him locked up in there.
Catch me!” She begins to swivel her legs around to dangle them over the
edge. I grab her.
“No! Everything is inside the bus.” I hold tight to Alice’s squirming
body. “We can’t just leave and take our chances out there. There might be
more of them in the café, and who knows how far we’ll have to go before
we’re safe? You were the one who said we should stay inside.”
“But he’s inside!”
“Not for long.” I let go and stand up, oh-so-decisively. “He’s slow, like
the others?” I shout down to Smitty.
He nods. “I’ll keep him at the front until you’re inside . . . then get him to come toward you while you dodge past.”
“Easy.” I swallow.
“Too right.” He winks.
Pete is lying across the hatch like a starfish. He looks paler than ever.
“You’re going in?” he says.
“Keep the hatch open.” My heart is hammering. “Promise me.”
He grunts and moves aside. Reassuring.
I lift the hatch. “I’m ready!” I shout down to Smitty.
“He’s still at the front,” he calls back. “You’re good to go.”
I take a final breath of the cold, crisp air and lower myself into
the bus.
I wriggle down behind a seat. The undriver is at the front, swaying
and slapping the windscreen. Something is pissing him off. It’s Smitty,
jumping up and down on the other side of the glass like his own private whack-a-mole. I ease into the aisle and back down to row 20, where
we stored the ski equipment. Carefully, I pull out a ski pole. It’s not an ideal weapon, but it will have to do. I left my submachine gun back in the States. Ha-ha.
Smitty stops jumping and I can’t see him anymore. Seems like the
driver can’t, either; he presses himself up to the glass, then stumbles
back a step or two, contemplating his next move. I guess this is my cue.
“Hey!”
I bang my pole on the ground.
“Come get me!”
The head whips around again. That’s a neat trick. Must be his signa—
ture monster move. It sure is effective. I resist the urge to pee my pants.
“That’s right, mister! I’m up here!”
Oh, my Undead-taunting banter seriously needs work. I always
wondered why the heroines in horror movies spend half their time
making wisecracks when they fight their opponents. Now I know it’s
to distract themselves from thoughts of their imminent death. I edge
toward the hatch, painfully aware that it’s my only escape route. The
driver begins to head my way. He’s uncoordinated and shambling, but
will he suddenly remember how to run? I hold the pole out in front of me
and force myself to keep walking. Really it’s just a test of how long I can keep my nerve as he staggers toward me. Maybe I should tell Pete to shut the hatch so that’s not an option? Yeah, right. I look up for a second. Alice and Pete stare down at me, faces pale, jaws almost as slack as the driver’s.
I cannot mess this up. I will look like a total loser. A dead loser. Or an Undead one.
Forget the hatch. I make myself walk past it. Now it’s the doors or
bust. I bang the pole again, take a step forward, one hand on a seat, ready to dart out of arm’s reach.
The driver lurches closer, and believe me, there is no doubt in my
mind that he is dead. There’s nothing behind his eyes — no compassion,
no anger, no fear. Any semblance of who he once was has gone, replaced
by this stumbling, hungry-looking thing, reaching for me. And the moaning. It’s a guttural groaning anchored so deep it sounds like he is trying to bring up oil. Does he have a wife? Kids? Anyone who would recognize him now? How would they feel if they could see him like this?
Get a grip. Concentrate. My dad always told me I have fast reactions —
that’s what makes me a good skier — and now I’ve got to test them to the
max. The driver’s nearly upon me. Just a couple of feet separates us.
Now!
I dodge into the seat on my left, throwing a leg over the seats in front,
set to scramble past. But the driver isn’t close enough to dodge; he simply sidesteps into the corresponding seat a row farther down, like a well-trained chess piece. Oh, goody. I dart back into the aisle, then across to the right-hand side, clambering forward over a row before he can react.
For a second I think I’ve made it. Then he lunges at me.
Without thinking I thrust the ski pole into his chest. It sinks in surprisingly easily with a clunk, momentarily pinning him like an indignant beetle. He swipes it away, and his sudden strength is shocking. I let go of the pole and it falls out of reach. He lunges again, spit flying out of his mouth in cloudy, viscous globules. I flatten myself against the window, my back slipping on the pathetic little nylon curtain that serves no purpose whatsoever except to hinder attempted escapes from flesh—
eating monsters. As I slide down the window like broken egg, I notice
that the ski pole has wedged between my row of seats and the one in
front, making a feeble barrier between the bus driver and me. He presses
against it, frustrated as he reaches for me, his fingers a few inches from my face. If I die right here, right now, I will be ashamed. What a fail.
Struck down and eaten by a bus driver, for crap’s sake, in Scotland, on a lame school trip. Just as the pole starts to buckle and his fingers clasp my hair, I throw myself over into the seat in front — and roll into the aisle.
I embrace the floor for a millisecond, willing it to open up and engulf
me. “Move!” Alice screams from above.
I look up. The driver is bearing down on me, teeth gnashing. Alice
screams again. Distracted, he straightens and swipes up at the hatch
with his good arm.
It is time to stand up. But as I make to move, something attaches
itself to my jacket. My hands scrabble underneath me. My ski pass has
caught on something in the floor. I can’t move.
A slam from above means the hatch is closed. I am on my own. Hey,
they held out longer than I’d figured.
Desperately, I tug at the plastic pass. A silver ring pops up from the
rubber floor. I stare at it. I know what that is. I pull on the silver ring with all my might and a trapdoor lifts up, slamming into the driver’s face as he dives down to reach me. A black hole opens up underneath and I slither into it headfirst, ASAP.
A thankfully brief fall, and cushioned by something squashy. I’m in
the luggage hold, on top of an open suitcase �
�� its lid removed to make
the back window barricade.
It’s dark but there’s a rectangle of light above me. The trapdoor was
not hinged; it came off completely before it whacked the driver in the
face, and it is only a matter of time before his befuddled brain realizes I am still within reach.
Scrambling over the suitcases, spilling their contents on to the floor,
I make for the doors of the hold. Doors in a hold are not designed for
escape from the inside. I bang on the side of the bus with my fist, praying that Smitty will realize and open them up.
Above me looms the driver, staring blankly into the hole. The noise
attracted him. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.
“Hey!” I move farther down the bus, through souvenirs and dirty
laundry, slapping the doors. “I’m in here! Get me out!”
A crash behind me tells me I’m no longer alone in the hold. Panic,
rising up like cold water through my body, threatens to overwhelm me.
Wedging my backside against a suitcase, I kick the door with both legs,
then again, and again, and again. In the gloom, the driver begins to
swim through the sea of suitcases in my direction.
I kick again.
Just as I’m convinced I’m never going to see daylight again, the door
opens and light floods into the hold. I roll blindly toward the light and
fall with a crunch into the snow.
Smitty stands there, looking down at me. But not for long. A moan
erupts from within the hold. He goes to slam the door.
“Wait!” I scramble to my feet. “We need to get him out.” I pull Smitty
a few feet away from the hold, and the driver emerges. “Keep on your
feet. He’s not too fast, but he’s stronger than you think.”
“Oi, you soft git!” calls Smitty to the driver, who is finding his feet in the snow. “Pick on someone your own size.”
The driver stumbles toward us.
“You distract him while I climb back in,” I babble. Smitty looks confused. “The door is still barricaded. Shut the luggage hold after me and
get ready to jump in through the front door.”
Unbelievably, Smitty does as he is told. He leaps through the snow,
arms circling above him like it’s all an elaborate dance routine.
“Come to me! Come to me!” he sings, then bends over, gathers snow
Undead (ARC) Page 7
