Undead (ARC)

by McKay, Kirsty

  troop down the aisle. Someone helps me onto the backseat. “We should

  be back in civilization in an hour or two if the weather holds off,” he

  continues. “You should have seen it up at Aviemore, talk about a blizzard.” His voice is light and easy. “Are you sure you’re all OK? I can

  call ahead for a doctor once my phone starts working again. You’re

  not the first people we’ve seen out wandering on this road. They

  didn’t seem in great shape, either. What a night to get caught out, eh?

  Biting cold.”

  I hear my mother talking to him, spinning a yarn, making it right.

  Pete and Alice are sitting a row ahead and across the aisle. Alice is

  already fast asleep, her head resting on Pete’s shoulder. And then Smitty

  is plonked down next to me, his leg wrapped in a makeshift bandage

  with someone’s scarf. A blanket is put over us. I feel the rumble as the

  bus starts up, and we drive off slowly.

  A deluge of tired moves over me. I turn to Smitty before it wins.

  “Tell me one thing.”

  He gives me a drugged-out smile. “Anything.”

  “Is there a hatch in this bus? And a trapdoor in the floor?”

  With great effort he pulls himself up to look down the aisle.

  “Yep. Both present and correct.”

  “Good.” I relax into my seat. “Then we’ll be OK.”

  Smitty gives a sleepy chuckle, the bus roars as it ramps up a gear, the

  driver turns up the radio, and there’s some totally tacky song on about

  how we’re all in the sun, and we’re so lucky, lucky, lucky. I begin to drift off, and under the blanket I feel Smitty take my hand. I allow myself a smile as I hear his voice in my ear, soft and strong.

  “That’s right, Bob. We’ll be OK.”

  I snuggle deeper, my body surrendering to the sleepy. But something’s

  digging into my ribs. It’s the cooler. I untangle the strap from my shoulder and lower it gently onto the floor. I hope the other syringe will be safe there. To turn another coach-load of kids into zombies — that would just be plain sloppy. As I push the cooler under the seat in front with my feet, I feel something blocking the space. Then the bus jerks and it slides out into the aisle. Leaning across Smitty, I look to see what was in my way.

  A rectangular carton.

  With an orange cartoon figure on the front.

  Opened.

  Empty.

  CARROT MAN VEGGIE JUICE!

  PUT SOME FIRE IN YOUR BELLY!

  Adrenaline courses through my body like someone just plunged a

  needle straight into my heart.

  No, no, no . . .

  “Smitty! Wake up!” I shake him, my voice rising to a scream. “We

  need to get off this bus — now!”

  Acknowledgments

  Huge thanks to my agent Veronique Baxter for her passion, wisdom, and

  generally being one cool chick.

  To my patient and wonderful editors Imogen Cooper and Rachel

  Leyshon, and to Barry Cunningham, Rachel Hickman, and all at Chicken

  House for their boundless enthusiasm.

  What would I do without my Gripers? My fab fellow writers: Elaine

  Dimopoulos, Jean Stehle, Sonia Miller, Jane Kohuth, and Laura Woollett.

  Thank you so much for supporting and inspiring this random Brit

  through all the revisions and beyond.

  A special holla goes out to Emma Sear for not letting a little thing like the Atlantic Ocean get in the way, and to my fly girl Jennifer Withers for all the horror I’m ever going to need.

  To Keith and Didi McKay, for being right, goddamn it. Love you

  muchly.

  Finally, to John Mawer and Xanthe, for giving me the best reason in

  the world to survive the zombie apocalypse.