My Teacher Ate My Brain

by Tommy Donbavand

  www.franklinwatts.co.uk

  Also by Tommy Donbavand

  Scream Street

  Zombie!

  Wolf

  The Uniform

  Virus

  This ebook edition published in 2012

  Franklin Watts

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  Franklin Watts Australia

  Level 17/207 Kent Street

  Sydney, NSW 2000

  The author has asserted their rights in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Nicholas Kinney/Shutterstock: front cover c.

  Anastasiya Zalevska/Shutterstock: front cover tl, bl, tr, br.

  ISBN: 978 1 4451 1470 5

  Franklin Watts is a division of Hachette Children’s Books,

  an Hachette UK company.

  www.hachette.co.uk

  www.franklinwatts.co.uk

  www.orchardbooks.co.uk

  www.hodderchildrens.co.uk

  www.waylandbooks.co.uk

  For Guy N. Smith,

  author of Night of the Crabs,

  the horror story that started it all…

  I ran as fast as I could, my bare feet sinking in the soft sand, making it difficult to pick up speed. Behind me, I could hear the wet-throated scream of Miss Edwards, my maths teacher — or, at least, what was left of her. A glance over my shoulder confirmed what I feared — she was gaining on me. Her jaw, broken in the fight, hung loose and swung from side to side with each of her uncertain strides. If it wasn’t for the blood cascading down the exposed white bone of her chin, it would have looked as though she was yawning.

  Miss Edwards had always been good looking — the type of teacher fancied by older students and male staff alike. Her long, blonde hair always had that “just been washed” look to it, and she smelled like a spring day — all honey and strawberries. Boys actually fought to sit at the front in her maths classes — and my best mate, Callum, never let me forget the day I absent-mindedly doodled her name in my exercise book. He said I had a crush on her — but that was just stupid.

  Miss Edwards didn’t smell of strawberries any more. She smelled of rotten meat. Of terror. Of death.

  Her hair was matted with blood and lumps of grey that I knew had to be one of my classmate’s brains. I had to get away.

  Suddenly, my foot caught in a hole and a lightning bolt of pain shot up from my ankle as it twisted violently to one side. I fell, face first, into the sand, and for a second I almost gave up. I almost lay there and let Miss Edwards finish me off. But then I realised I was clutching something in my hand and I lifted my head to see what it was. I was still holding the spatula Mr Blake had handed me ready to cook sausages on the barbecue. I watched in fascination as the moonlight glinted on its shining, metal surface.

  GLARK!

  I flipped myself over onto my back at the sound — just in time to see Miss Edwards’s twisted face plunge down, teeth aimed squarely for my throat. I lashed out with the spatula as hard as I could, and caught her in the side of the face. The blow was enough to knock her to one side — but also enough to snap the head from the spatula. Now all I had was a jagged metal stick in my hand. And that was probably what saved me.

  Miss Edwards loomed back over me, a mixture of her blood and saliva spattering down on my cheeks like warm, sticky rain. Her eyes — milky and unfocussed — gazed down at me hungrily. And then I knew what I had to do. Placing the heel of my hand against the bottom of the spatula’s handle, I pushed the sharp end as hard as I could into one of her eyes. Her eyeball popped — I actually heard it — and then all resistance was gone.

  The metal spear sank deep into Miss Edwards’s brain and, with a final groan, her lifeless body slumped down on top of me. I turned my head to one side — partly to catch my breath and partly so that I didn’t have to look at what I’d just done.

  Then…

  FLASH!

  My vision flooded with white light and it was a few seconds before I could see clearly again. Slowly, everything came back into focus and I saw Callum kneeling in the sand beside me — his phone in his hand. He’d taken a photo of me and the corpse of Miss Edwards!

  “Whoooo-ooo!” he said, grinning like an idiot. “Josh finally gets the chance to cuddle his favourite teacher!”

  By the time I pushed Miss Edwards’s corpse off me, Callum was gone — racing along the beach, shouting that he was going to “find someone else who was dressed up as a zombie”. Could he really think this was all make-believe? He’d seen the way I’d had to finish off Miss Edwards, and he still didn’t understand this nightmare was real! Mind you — I was having a hard time believing it myself.

  Things like this weren’t supposed to happen in real life — and especially not on school camping trips. This morning, I was just one of five kids from Liverpool who stayed after school a couple of times a week to help out with the homework club — but now I was fighting the undead on a tiny island off the coast of Wales. This weekend away was the teachers’ way of saying thanks for all our hard work — and Mr Blake had even arranged for us to stay here on Shell Island before it officially opened to visitors. He’d showed us on the map that it wasn’t really an island, but when the tide came in and flooded the road, the camp site was cut off from the mainland until —

  “ARGH!”

  The sound jerked me back to my senses, and I quickly remembered that I was out in the open. Miss Edwards might be finally dead, but Mr Blake was still out here somewhere, hungrily searching for human flesh. I stood, taking care not to put too much weight on my twisted ankle. It hurt, but not enough to keep me from searching for somewhere to hide.

  I hurried up the beach and over the sand dunes to the main camping ground. I knew our flimsy tents wouldn’t provide any protection, but I was sure I’d spotted a small concrete shed. The moon was ducking in and out from behind a gathering bank of clouds and it was difficult to see but — yes! There it was!

  I half-ran, half-stumbled across the camp site to the shed. I fell against the rough stone wall and took a moment to catch my breath. Then I began to circle the building, looking for the door. In the distance, I could just make out the orange glow of the fire we’d started on the beach to cook dinner. Mr Blake had dug a pit and filled it with wood and clumps of dried grass, and he was just setting it alight when that thing — whatever it was — had risen up out of the sand and bitten him.

  My fingers moved from concrete to wood. I’d found the door! If I was right, this would be the place where the site’s groundskeeper kept all his tools — tools which could be used as weapons against anything or anyone that wanted to eat me. Thankfully, the door was unlocked and I quietly slipped inside the shed… where a hand grabbed me by the throat and shoved me hard against the wall.

  “Listen to me, you brain-sucking scum! There’s no way I’m going to let you eat the contents of my head or anyone else’s, get it?!”

  I caught a glint of metal in the thin shaft of moonlight that crept in through the single, filthy window. I knew the owner of that voice — and she was holding a pair of gardening shears!

  “Lydia!” I cried. “It’s me — Josh!”

  There was a CLICK, and the powerful beam of a torch was aimed at my face.

  “I know who it is,” snarled Lydia. “I just don’t know if you’re safe to be around.”

  “I… I am!” I stammered as her grip tightened around my throat. “I haven’t been bitten!”

  Lydia’s eyes glinted angrily in the torchlight as she brought the shears closer to my face.

  “Prove it!”

  I bl
inked in the torchlight. “You want me to prove I’m not a zombie?”

  “Exactly!”

  “Well, I know we’re both in serious danger, and I haven’t tried to rip your face off yet — how’s that for proof?”

  With a sigh, Lydia relaxed her grip and slumped to the floor. “Sorry,” she said. “I just had to be sure.”

  “It’s OK,” I said, rubbing at my throat. Then I heard a sob. “Who’s that?”

  Lydia swung the torch round to reveal a second girl hunched up in the far corner. Her dress was torn and her face was streaked with tears.

  “Amy!” I said, hurrying over. “Are you OK?”

  “She won’t answer,” said Lydia. “She hasn’t said a word since I dragged her away from the beach. I think she’s in shock.”

  “I’m not surprised,” I said, taking off my jacket and wrapping it around Amy’s shoulders. It wasn’t much, but it might help her to stop shivering. “What was that thing that bit Mr Blake?”

  “Who knows?” said Lydia. “It looked like some sort of half-human, half-crab thing, but I didn’t hang around to look.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Have you seen the others?” Lydia asked. “Did Miss Edwards get away?”

  I shook my head. “Mr Blake attacked her and she became… one of them.”

  “He got Daniel, too,” said Lydia. “So that means there are three of those things out there.”

  “Two, actually,” I said, wiping the sticky remains of an eyeball from my cheek. “Miss Edwards isn’t a problem any more.”

  “What about Callum?”

  I almost laughed. “He’s having a great time!”

  “What?!”

  “He thinks it’s all a set up by Mr Blake and Miss Edwards to scare us,” I said. “Like some sort of ultimate campfire horror story.”

  “Moron!”

  Callum might have been my best mate, but on this occasion, I couldn’t disagree.

  “So, what do we do now?” I asked. “We can’t stay in here forever.”

  Lydia thought for a moment. “Have you got your phone?”

  I rummaged through my pockets, but they were empty. “I must have dropped it when I was fighting with Miss Edwards. How about you?”

  “I have, but the battery’s dead. And I think Amy left hers in the tent before we went out.”

  “Callum’s got his phone with him,” I said, suddenly remembering the flash as he took the picture of me. “But he’s probably skipping along the beach, looking for fairies.”

  “We’ll have to try and get back to the tents, then,” said Lydia. “If we can find Amy’s phone, we can call — ”

  SMASH!

  We ducked as the shed window exploded inwards, showering us with broken glass. I could see someone moving around outside.

  “It’s Mr Blake!” I hissed. The teacher’s arm forced its way through the lethal shards and a bloodied hand groped in the air to try and find us.

  “Perfect!” said Lydia. “That’s better than getting to a phone!”

  I stared at her. “How is a zombie finding us better than calling for help?!”

  “He might have the minibus keys in his pocket!”

  It took me a second to take in what Lydia was suggesting. “You want to ask him for his keys?”

  “Not ask him, dimwit,” Lydia snapped, ducking as Mr Blake’s fingers brushed against her hair. “We’ll have to take them from him by force.”

  “Then we’ll need weapons.”

  I took the torch and swung it around the inside of the shed. Hanging on the walls were an assortment of tools. I chose a hefty gardening fork as Lydia gripped the handles of her trusty shears.

  “Let’s do it!”

  We burst out of the shed together, screaming at the tops of our voices. I don’t know what the screams added to the attack — but it seemed to make us feel better.

  I ploughed into Mr Blake, shoulder first, sending him staggering backwards. I’d hoped to knock him to the ground, but he managed to stay on his feet and lunged at Lydia, hand outstretched. I heard her shears snap closed with a SHLINK, and four pink fingers dropped to the grass before us.

  I stared at the detached digits in horror, almost expecting them to squirm around with lives of their own — but, of course, they didn’t. They just lay there, spattered in blood. Mr Blake was gazing at his stump of a hand, wiggling his thumb from side to side as a mixture of blood and black goo streamed from where his fingers should have been. Then he attacked again.

  This time, Mr Blake didn’t get close enough for Lydia to use her shears. I stabbed him hard in the chest with my fork, the metal prongs sinking into his flesh and grating against the bones of his ribs. I pushed hard against the handle, knocking the teacher off his feet and onto his back.

  I jumped onto Mr Blake’s stomach and put all my weight onto the fork.

  “Now!” I shouted to Lydia. “Get the keys!”

  Lydia dropped to her knees and began to search through Mr Blake’s trouser pockets. The creature beneath me finally roared in anger and tried to force himself up, but every movement just caused the fork to sink lower and lower into his chest.

  FLASH!

  I jumped as a burst of light hit us. It was Callum again.

  “Wow!” he yelled in excitement. “Where did you get these made? They’re so lifelike!”

  He was picking up Mr Blake’s severed fingers!

  “Callum!” I barked. “Put those down and listen to me! This is not a joke — it’s all real!”

  The smile on Callum’s face faltered slightly as he glanced down at the fork in Mr Blake’s chest, and then back up at me.

  “Real?” he said, a slight tremor in his voice.

  “Yes!” snapped Lydia. “Now, stop taking stupid pictures and help us!”

  For a second, I really thought he believed us. Then another figure came lurching out of the darkness. It was Daniel, although I could only tell by the clothes he was wearing. Almost all of his face had been torn away, leaving behind a mass of red flesh.

  “Brilliant make-up, Daniel!” cried Callum. He quickly took a picture of his advancing school friend, and then scampered off laughing to himself.

  “Got them!” Lydia pulled a bunch of keys from one of Mr Blake’s pockets. “Let’s get to the minibus!”

  I hesitated, even though Mr Blake was clawing at the leg of my jeans with his good hand and Daniel was shuffling in our direction — presumably attracted by the sound as he didn’t appear to have any eyes left.

  “What about Amy?”

  Lydia shot a look back at the shed where her friend was still cowering.

  “If we go back in there, we might never get out again. And if she stays quiet, they might not find her.”

  She was right. We had to leave Amy behind. I left the fork sticking out of Mr Blake’s chest and we ran.

  Lydia grabbed the handle of the driver’s door then paused, her breathing heavy.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “I don’t know how to drive,” she admitted.

  I’m nowhere near old enough to take my test yet, either, but I’ve driven the tractor on my uncle’s farm a few times.

  “I’ll do it.”

  Lydia tossed me the keys and ran round to jump in the passenger seat. I started the engine, released the handbrake — and we were off.

  We roared past the camp site’s offices and the small shop and cafe — all locked up and dark — and we’d driven a couple of hundred metres along the causeway before the engine stalled. It was probably just as well; the tide was still in and covering the road. All I could see was black, churning water. One false move and we’d end up in the sea.

  I turned the key, spinning the starter motor over. Nothing. I tried again. Just a groaning whirr. The engine wouldn’t start.

  “What are you doing?” demanded Lydia. I could hear the panic rising in her voice.

  “I’m not doing anything.”

  “Start the engine!”

  “It won�
��t start!”

  “We can’t just sit here! They’ll be coming after us! We have to —”

  FLASH!

  Christ! It was Callum again! He’d jumped up on the bonnet of the minibus and was grinning at us through the windscreen. He looked like a monkey climbing over a car at a safari park.

  Lydia swung her door open.

  “Get in here, you cretin!” she screamed.

  Callum jumped down into the knee-high water and clambered in past her.

  “This is awesome!” he shrieked happily. “Come on, whose idea was it? I bet it was Daniel’s, wasn’t it? He’s always been into drama!”