where he lies, moaning.
“No!” I face up to him, stupidly confident that he wouldn’t dare hit a
girl, a teenage girl.
But I didn’t bargain on Grace. She steps up to Smitty and shocks him
with the stick. He cries out and spasms on the floor like a fish out of
water. She stares at me accusingly, as if I was the one who hurt him. She
taps the bars with her stick.
“Where’s this key?”
“It’s in her hand!” Shaq shouts.
I step back against the wall, my fist clenched behind me, and Michael
lunges for me.
“Stop!” Grace shouts at Michael. “There’s really no need to scare her.”
She points the stick at Smitty, moves it slowly down his body until it
hovers over his groin. Smitty’s eyes widen.
“Don’t give it to them, Bob!” he grunts.
Grace lowers the stick slowly and deliberately.
“Here!” I hold the key up, just in time to save Smitty, who shuts his
eyes and gulps loudly.
Michael grabs the key and twists it into the lock, and suddenly Shaq
is out, and Grace is pushing me into the cell, followed by Pete, Lily, and Cam. Michael drags Smitty in behind us.
Alice is still outside. Grace beckons her.
“No!” Alice wails. “I’m not going to be locked up there with that
thing!” She backs off, but Michael seizes her and thrusts her toward the
cell. At the door she manages to grab the bars and for a moment he can’t
move her. Then she suddenly lets go, swings around, and shoots a hand
out through the door. She’s in the cell now, and Michael slams the door
shut on all of us, but I see what she managed to do. She has the key.
A second later, Michael realizes it, too. He opens the door and
advances toward her, but Alice is too quick. She holds up the little
key and swallows it in one gulp.
“There!” She opens her mouth and sticks her tongue out. “Now you
can’t lock us in!”
Go Alice.
Grace groans, turns on her heel, and strides off down the corridor,
followed by Shaq.
“Michael! We don’t have time for this!”
Michael kicks out at the chair, then at Smitty, and leaves us in the
cell, slamming the door behind. It clanks in its place and — thankfully —
swings open again. The last thing we need is for that latch to suddenly
spring shut — the only solution currently being eaten away by Alice’s
stomach acid.
“Wait!” Lily calls to them. “Come back here! We’ve got the key!”
I cringe and close my eyes. She’s told them.
But incredibly, they keep on walking. They think she means the
cell key.
“I’ve got the key,” Alice says. “And I’m not giving it up.”
Lily half groans, half screams when she realizes why they haven’t
come back.
Smitty rolls onto his back, holds up an arm, and checks an imaginary
watch.
“Give it a few hours, Malice,” he splutters through thick and bloodied
lips. “They’ll be coming back to do a special toilet trip with you.”
Alice looks at him and runs out of the cell. We don’t need an invita—
tion to follow her. The basement, with its tarps and boxes and coal chute, seems like five-star luxury compared to the cell.
Smitty refuses my help, even when I offer it begrudgingly, which is
the only way I think he’ll go for it. His face is a mess, but I think his
pride is hurt more than anything. The others clear out faster than us;
I linger behind, pretending that my leg is giving me trouble.
“Nice catch, by the way.” I lean against the cell bars and fiddle with
my leggings.
“What?” He struggles to get up. I act like I don’t notice.
“The Macbeth thing. Pretty cool that you knew those quotes. And he fell for it.”
He shrugs, which in itself looks painful.
“No biggie. I knew he was lying.”
He shuffles out into the corridor and I follow.
“What are they really from, those lines? You said Roman emperor.
Julius Caesar?”
He rolls his eyes. “Dunno. Probably. I just knew them because they’re
in a Death Throes song.”
Death Throes. In the half-light, I flush red. That badge he had on his jacket, the one we used to fasten the bus driver’s arm bandage in place, way back when. Some British band I’m too uncool to know. But then,
as I follow him up the corridor slowly, I see through it. He did know the lines were from Julius Caesar, otherwise how could he know they weren’t in Macbeth? He just doesn’t want to look like a geek in front of me.
When we reach the basement, Pete is disappearing up the steps, calling out that he’s going to check that the door actually is locked. I sink
onto a box. Alice has found another bottle of champagne. Smitty grabs it
from her, untwists the wire cage, and pops the cork. He pours the foam
over his sore face, then hands it back to Alice. Lily places Cam back into the box that has become his bed. He doesn’t look well at all. Can’t be easy coping with the apocalypse when you’re three.
Pete descends the steps, his face telling us all we need to know.
“We’re stuck, aren’t we?” Lily stands up, her face solemn. “I’m going
to do something about this. We can’t stay down here forever. The time
has come to —”
I jump to my feet. “OK!” I shout. “We need to know what’s in that
tower. If we can hear what they’re talking about, we’ll know why they’re
trying so hard to get into the tower, and” — I look at Lily — “if it turns out it will help to get in there, we will help them find the key,” I say carefully.
Smitty looks up at me from his seat on the lawn mower. “And that
works . . . how?”
“We get out of here!” I’m pacing now.
“Yay!” Alice says, acting her little socks off. “Oh, pardonnez-moi, I didn’t see the sign for the Emergency Exit. Did I miss something? Or have you got your nerd teleporter with you?”
I look up the steps. Can’t go through the door. I briefly consider the
jail cell corridor that ends all too suddenly and Pete’s ideas of escape
tunnels, but dismiss it. This is not Nancy Drew. We won’t push the third brick up from the floor to activate a revolving stone door and reveal a smugglers’ passage. Well, probably not . . .
And then it comes to me.
The coal chute. Has to lead somewhere. And if stuff can come down
it, stuff can go up it, too. Stuff like me.
The small wooden door is partially open. Some coal must have tumbled down into the room when Lily and Cam hid in there, and it’s keeping
the door from shutting properly. I pull it wide and bend over to get
into the bunker, but it’s surprisingly spacious inside and I find I can
stand up.
“Roberta, you’re a genius!” shouts a voice from outside. It’s Smitty,
of course.
Then come the other voices.
“I’m not crawling up there, it’s filthy.” (Guess who.)
“Me and Cam will stay here.” (Guess who.)
“The success of escape will depend on the gradient of the chute, of
course.” (And guess who.)
I climb onto the highest point of the pile of coal and look up into the
chute itself. The opening begins at the top of the wall — which is about at my stooped shoulder height — a little high to crawl in easily, b
ut not out of the question if I can find something to stand on. It’s pretty dark, but there’s a white horizontal line in the distance, as if the door at the other end is open a crack.
“Where’s that flashlight?” I yell as I turn, and nearly jump out of my
skin. Smitty is hunched behind me.
“Way ahead of you.” He clicks the flashlight on and shines it up
the chute. The length is about two-and-a-half Smittys, but wow, it’s a
tight squeeze. I move closer to get a better view and bang my shin on
something.
“Ow. There’s something sticking out of the wall.”
Smitty shines the light down and we see three rusty rungs sticking
out, one above the other. Steps. Someone must have wanted to climb up
here before, maybe to clear a blockage. Maybe some poor kitchen boy
or chimney sweep. Kid must have been pretty skinny to make it; then
again, they were all malnourished and small back in Ye Olden Days.
I’m not malnourished — well, I could be by now, but it’s a kind of
recent (under)development. I am skinny, though. I put my foot on the
first rung and prepare to push myself up.
“Nuh-uh, let me,” Smitty says.
“You’ll never fit,” I counter.
“I will, and I’ll pull you up after me.”
“I don’t need you to pull me.” I glare at him in the darkness, and put
my foot on the rung again.
“Too bad.” He hands me the flashlight and curls a leg around my knee
from behind, knocking me off balance. He pushes me lightly, and I fall
back all too easily, my butt crunching onto the pile of coal.
“Hey!” I cry, but he’s up the chute like a ferret up a drainpipe. At least for a few feet. And then he stops. He wriggles, his feet scuffing up coal dust as he tries to push himself farther. He manages to squirm onto his
back and tries that way, his legs bending, trying to force himself up the
chute. But it’s no good. He’s stuck.
“Problems?” I say.
His sigh echoes off the metal walls boxing him in. “Turns out I’m way
too muscular and broad-shouldered for this gig.”
“I see. That’s a shame.” I’m not giving him an inch. And neither’s the
coal chute.
“In fact, I think I’m going to need some help getting out again.”
“Wow.” I mull that one over. “Smitty needs help? That must be . . .
painful.”
He’s trying not to get irritated. “Not at all.”
“What’s going on in there?” Alice juts her head through the doorway.
“Oh my god, there are probably humungous spiders in here.” She sneezes.
“I think I’m allergic. Hurry up and escape!”
She disappears, and I can hear her telling Pete and Lily how totally
useless we are. I place the flashlight to one side, stand on the bottom
rusty rung, and grab Smitty’s ankles. I pull. At first he doesn’t budge, but then I brace my other foot against the wall and heave with all my might.
There’s a scraping noise, a yell, and then he’s free — tumbling through the chute and threatening to fall and squish me. I dodge and he lands like a cat on the coal heap, his leather jacket bunched around his shoulders.
“Yeah, thanks,” he says. “I think.” He takes off his jacket, picks up the
flashlight, and examines it. It’s majorly scratched up.
“Sorry,” I say.
“Save it. It’s the distressed look. Malice will probably say I’m bang on
trend.”
“You’re kidding. Distressing was so pre-apocalypse.”
He smiles, stretches an arm out to don the jacket again, and winces.
It’s a tiny intake of breath, before he can stop himself. He puts a hand on the back of his T-shirt and brings it out, the fingers wet and red.
“What have you done?” I snatch the flashlight and spin him around.
He protests, but I lift the back of his T-shirt anyway. Long, vertical,
bloody scrapes run from his waist up. “Oh god, Smitty,” I whisper. “Your
back’s in ribbons. I’m so sorry.” I search my pockets for something to
staunch the blood, but I’m out of options. “I don’t have anything to use
on it,” I panic. “You need to get it cleaned up.” I rifle through my pockets a second time, fumbling and dropping the flashlight, which flickers
and dies.
“Stop.” He turns and holds my arms. “I’ll be OK.”
“But it was my fault!” I say, staring up at his barely lit face. “The
scrapes could get infected —”
Smitty leans in and kisses me.
On the lips.
It’s warm and firm and sweet and tastes of blood and a little bit
of vomit — and it’s over before I can decide whether to kiss him back
or punch his lights out.
“Get up the frickin’ chute, Roberta.”
Oh sweet Smart Retort Angel, where are you when I need you? I stare
up at Smitty, not sure if I’ve just been seduced or insulted. Speechless,
and with shaking legs, I grab the flashlight off the floor and switch it
on, turn to the wall, and shin up into that chute, half expecting Smitty
to slap my behind. He doesn’t, and I’m disgusted with myself that I’m
almost a little disappointed. My mind burns .
He kissed me? On the lips! Like that’s OK. It’s not OK, it’s totally wrong! Was he serious? Is he laughing at me? So why did I like it so much?
The thought makes me scrunch my face as I climb. Disgust fueling
my ascent, I pull myself up that tunnel on my elbows, the flashlight in
my hand flickering and clunking against tin until I’m nose to door with
the exit. I slide my fingers under the gap and they meet cold snow. I slide the door up, wriggle through, and kick my way out into the frigid air.
I stagger to my feet, lean against the stone wall, and let my red cheeks
cool. It’s dazzlingly white outside, so incredibly quiet. The snow surprises me, like I’d almost forgotten it was ever there. I’m at the back of the castle, in a courtyard surrounded by stable buildings or outhouses.
The tower surges up to my left, and beyond that must be the kitchen and
the back door Smitty used on our first night here. Last night, I remind myself. Crazy. Feels like I’ve been here for weeks.
There’s a muffled noise from below; Smitty is shouting something.
I shove the flashlight down the back of my leggings, bend down, and
slide the door shut quietly.
I’m on my own now. Absolutely on my own.
2 2
I could run.
I don’t have anything but the clothes on my back, but I could still run.
I’d have at least five or six hours before sunset to get somewhere. How
far could I get in six hours, on foot, in snow? Ten miles? Twelve? More?
There are other villages, there’ll be other places with phones, other survivors who aren’t so psychotic or irritating, who won’t insist on kissing me.
Now would be the time to make a move. One person does not attract
the same kind of Meat-Feast-Seeking Monsters as several loud teenagers
burdened with injuries and a three-year-old boy. I can make it on my own.
I breathe. Assess.
There are tracks in the courtyard snow. Too wide for skis, too narrow
for a car. They lead from an archway in the courtyard wall to an out—
building with a stable door.
I creep up to it, half an eye on the windows behind me in case anyone
is watching. They’re not, as far as I can tell. I unbolt the top part of
the door and peep in. All I need right now is a zombie Black Beauty.
Instead I see two Ski-Doos — one silvery blue, the other red with a
small sled attached to the back.
I unbolt the bottom door and slip inside.
Oh gosh.
There are keys in the ignition of both Ski-Doos. Reckless? I guess if
zombies attack, it doesn’t help to be wondering where you put the keys.
Beside the sled are some boxes, like someone has unloaded them
recently. I take a peek inside . . . disinfectant. I frown. Something familiar about this. In fact, the more I think about it, the more sure I am that these are the very same boxes we sat on in the office of the Cheery
Chomper. I’m certain that’s an Alice-sized butt dent in the top of one.
So that’s what they were doing while they were away from the castle?
Getting disinfectant? Weird.
I fling a leg over Silvery Blue and feel the cool leather of the seat. I
have driven one of these things before. Dad had a friend who loaned us a
couple on a ski trip last winter in Colorado. Of course, I wasn’t supposed to be driving it, just hanging on behind a parent. But Mum was back in the lodge on her BlackBerry as usual, so Dad and I rode all day, until our cheeks turned purple and my fingers had set in a clawlike grip.
I stroke the chassis of the Ski-Doo, the paintwork so smooth to the
touch. I could get a long way on Silvery Blue. To a town, a police station.
Given time and gas, maybe even home. I feel a pang as I think of home;
the new house in the suburbs that is way too big for Mum and me, with
its high ceilings, drafty fireplaces, and bad plumbing. We’ve lived there
barely a month and nothing about it seems like home yet. No history, no
familiarity, no birthdays or memories of a shared Christmas. Christmas
this year had been at Grandma’s with dry turkey and the Queen’s speech
and Mum crying quietly in her room when she thought I was downstairs.
Still, any version of home would be better than this.
I grip the handlebars of the Ski-Doo and wonder how much is in
the tank.
I dither. It’s a big move, leaving on my own.
If Dad was here now, he’d know what to do. He’d leap onto Big Red,
fire up the engine, lead the way. He’d find our way home, kicking any
monsters out of our path. I would be safe if Dad was here; he’d make
Undead (ARC) Page 19
