First Bites

by Darren Shan

“No way!” she gasps.

  Everyone laughs.

  “You’re an idiot,” I tell her.

  “Less of that,” Copper says, draping a protective arm around her.

  “My hero,” La Lips simpers and stands on her toes to stick her tongue down his throat.

  “Not in public!” I roar and we keep on going down the street, jostling and laughing.

  The girls don’t have much news. They’re as bored as we are. Suze and I walk a little ahead of the others, chatting about our mums—they used to be best friends when they were our age. But then Ballydefeck starts telling us to kiss each other, so I round on him and give him a slap to shut him up. He covers his head with both hands. “Not the face, B! Not the face!” In the end I kick him playfully and leave it at that.

  We come to a liquor store and pause by the window, enviously studying the bottles. Most of us have had a drink or two in our time–Dad let me sip beer when I was a baby, for laughs–but it’s hard to get hold of. Another few years and we’ll be able to pass for eighteen and go to parties and drink ourselves stupid. But for now we can’t do much apart from ogle and dream.

  “Wait here,” I tell the others, deciding to stir things up a bit. I push into the shop and walk straight to the beer fridge. I pick up a six-pack of the cheapest brand I can find–in case I get lucky–then lug it to the counter. The Pakistani guy behind the till stares at me, unimpressed. “Ring it up, boss,” I tell him.

  “You are underage.” He doesn’t even ask to see my ID.

  “No I’m not. Go on, ring it up, I’m good for it.” I dig out a tattered wallet that once belonged to my dad and slide out a tenner that I’ve been holding on to since Friday.

  “You are underage,” he says again. “It is illegal to sell alcohol to anyone under the age of eighteen. Please leave my shop immediately.”

  “Please leave my shop immediately,” I echo, mimicking his accent. I know it’s petty but I can’t stop myself.

  “If you do not leave, I will call the police,” he says.

  “Call them what?” I smirk.

  He points to a security camera. “This is all being recorded. I would advise you to return the alcohol to its shelf and–”

  I let the six-pack drop. The cans fizz but don’t explode. “Stick them back on the shelf yourself, numbnuts.”

  His face darkens and he leans forward to strike me. Then he stops and points at the door. “Out!” he screams.

  I laugh and shoot him the finger. I give the finger to the camera too, then take my time heading for the door. I plan to tell Dad about this later, knowing he’ll laugh, lovingly run his hand over my head and tell me I did good.

  “You’re crazy,” Kray yells when I get outside, then he bumps my fist hard. They’re all laughing and Trev gives me knuckles too.

  “Same old B,” Vinyl smiles tightly. For a moment I think he’s going to have a go at me again, but he says nothing more.

  “You didn’t really expect him to sell you any beer, did you?” Suze asks.

  “No.” I whip out a bar of chocolate from beneath my T-shirt. “But he was so wound up about the beer, he never saw me palming this.”

  Lots of cheers. They all lean in for a square. I push them away, then dole it out, a piece for everyone, a quick prayer of thanks to Mr. Cadbury, then on we go, the others still cooing over what I did.

  Later I head home alone through the dark. And do I worry about zombies? Do I bugger. I’m B Smith. This is my turf. Any zombies on the loose should be worried about me!

  FIVE

  That night I have the nightmare again. I’ve been tormented by it for as long as I can remember. Always the same, and always as terrifying.

  I’m on a plane. We haven’t taken off yet. I’m by the window but I don’t look out. In the dream I never look out.

  There’s a woman next to me and a baby in the aisle seat. The baby’s sitting alone, strapped in by a normal belt. I know that’s not right–they have special straps for babies on planes–but in the dream it doesn’t seem strange.

  The woman’s chatting to her child, cooing, making nonsense noises. The baby ignores her. It’s staring straight ahead. I don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl—it’s dressed in white clothes.

  We taxi down the runway. The engine roars. The plane tears free of the ground and whines like a dying dog. I shake in my seat. My stomach clenches. I don’t mind flying but I hate takeoff. We go abroad most years, Costa del Sol, Cyprus, Ibiza. Each time we rise, I’m sure that the engine will stall, that the plane will drop sickeningly, that I’ll die from an explosion or burn to death slowly. The fear passes when we level out, but for that first minute or two… absolute terror.

  It’s no different in the dream. Except in a way it is. Because I know something worse than a crash is coming. I sense it in the air. The roar of a plane engine is always menacing, but this sounds worse. It sounds hungry.

  The woman starts to cry. She doesn’t raise her hands, just sits upright, sobbing, tears streaming down her cheeks. I stare at her, wanting to say something but struck dumb by fear of what’s to come.

  Then the baby speaks.

  “don’t cry mummy.”

  Its voice is tinny, barely a whisper, but it carries above the roar of the engine. The woman doesn’t look at the baby or stop crying.

  “don’t be frightened mummy,” the baby says. “we’re with you. we’ll always be with you.”

  The baby’s head turns. But it’s not looking at its mother. It’s looking at me. It has no pupils, just balls of white for eyes.

  “you’re yummy mummy,” the baby whispers. It should be funny but it isn’t. The unnatural infant has a full set of teeth, all sharpened into fangs. Drops of blood drip from the sides of its mouth as it speaks.

  The baby stands. (I don’t know what happened to the belt.) I stare at it and it stares at me. The woman between us has vanished. The baby looks like a doll, not moving, not breathing, white eyes, sharp teeth, blood.

  “don’t be frightened mummy,” the baby says. Except its lips don’t move. After a confused moment I realize the voice came from the seat in front. I tear my gaze away from the baby and look ahead.

  Another baby is clinging to the top of the seat. I can see its face and shoulders, its perfect, tiny hands. It has the same type of clothes as the baby next to me. Same white eyes and sharp teeth. But no blood on this one’s lips. Not yet.

  “we’ll save you mummy,” the baby in front whispers.

  “we’ll always be with you mummy.” Another voice, from behind.

  The baby in my row is in the seat next to me now. The top of its head doesn’t quite reach my chin. It’s leaning forward. I should be able to knock it away with a single swipe. But I don’t move. I can’t.

  “you have to die now mummy,” the baby says, and die is echoed in whispers around the cabin.

  I half rise and look over the top of the seats ahead of me. Babies everywhere, all standing, climbing the seats, looking at me, whispering die.

  I glance back—more of the same. Scores of babies clambering over the seats, but calmly, smoothly, faces blank, eyes white, mouths open, teeth flashing.

  I cringe away from the monstrous babies and press hard against the window. I think I’m crying but I can’t be sure. The babies crawl over the seats, closer and closer, a tide of them, all looking the same. Only their fingers move, little flickers of flesh and bone. Otherwise they could be gliding.

  The baby next to me climbs into my lap and stands, feet planted on my thighs, face right in front of mine now. Others crowd around it. Unnaturally slender fingers fasten on my legs, my ankles, my wrists, my arms. A baby grabs my ears and pulls back my head, exposing my throat. There are more babies on the ceiling, hanging from it like angels or vampires.

  “join us mummy,” the baby directly in front of me says. The blood on its chin has dried. It falls off in flaky scabs.

  “die mummy,” the others croon.

  “you’re one of us,” the baby in my lap snar
ls, and suddenly its face changes. Its eyes glare red. Its lips contort into a sneer. Lines of hatred warp its clammy flesh. “you’re one of us mummy,” it shrieks.

  The baby thrusts forward and latches on to my throat. Those clinging to the ceiling drop. The rest press in around me. All of their mouths are open, rows of tiny, shiny teeth. All make a sickening moaning sound.

  Then they bite…

  SIX

  … and I wake up.

  I’m shaking and sweating. I always am after the nightmare. I feel like I’ve been screaming, but in all these years I’ve never made a sound. Mum and Dad would have told me if I had.

  I only wear underpants and a T-shirt to bed. I used to wear pajamas, but I’d always sweat through them when I had the dream and have to dump them the next day.

  I get up and stagger to the bathroom. I take off the T-shirt on the way and drop it by the foot of my bed, knowing Mum will stick it in the laundry basket in the morning.

  I sit on the toilet, shivering. I don’t need to pee. I just have to wait somewhere outside my bedroom for a bit, until the shakes pass.

  I hate that bloody dream. Apart from when Dad is on the rampage, it’s the only time I ever feel truly scared, lost, out of my depth, helpless. What’s worse, I can’t tell anyone about it. What would it look like, someone my age admitting they’re scared by a dream about babies? I mean, if it was cannibals or monsters or something, fair enough. But bloody babies!

  Dad would skin me if he heard I still have the nightmare. When I’d go crying to him as a kid, he’d tell me not to be stupid, there was nothing scary about babies. When I kept bothering him, he whipped me with his belt. He asked a few weeks later if I was still having the dream, I forced a grin and said I wasn’t.

  When the shakes stop, I get up and wash my face and hands. I wipe sweat from my back with a towel, then pause and study myself in the mirror. My eyes are bloodshot and blurry with traces of fear–I think I sometimes cry quietly in my sleep–so I splash water over them and rub them with my knuckles until it hurts. Next time I check, I just look angry. That’s better.

  I study my light blue eyes and admire my stubbled head. Flex my biceps. Rub a faded yellow bruise on my left arm where Dad thumped me a week ago when I didn’t hand him the remote quick enough. I wink at myself and mutter, “Looking good, B.”

  I massage my stomach, to loosen the tightened muscles, then pick at the faded white scar near the top of my right thigh. It’s a small c shape, from an injection I had when I was two or three years old. It was a new type of flu vaccine. Dad volunteered me for it—they were paying good money for guinea pigs. Mum was worried but Dad said there was no way they’d test it on babies if there was any chance it would cause harm.

  He was right and it worked a treat. I’ve never even had a cold. I don’t know why it didn’t make it to the shops. Maybe there were side effects and I’m one of the lucky ones who didn’t suffer any. Or maybe they have to wait a certain amount of time before they can put it on the market.

  I scowl and stop picking the c scar. The things that go through your mind at–I check my watch–3:27 in the morning. I should be sleeping, not analyzing a dumb bloody scar. I grin at myself. “You’re a stupid…”

  I stop. In the mirror I spot a baby standing on the laundry basket, hands red with blood, eyes white, teeth glinting. It breathes out and a small cloud of red mist rises from its mouth.

  I shut my eyes and count to five, taking quick breaths, cursing myself for my weakness. When I look again, there’s nobody behind me.

  I stomp from the bathroom and back to bed. I grab a fresh T-shirt from my wardrobe and glare as I pull it on, mad at myself for letting the nightmare freak me out so much.

  “It was only a dream, B,” I whisper as I lie beneath the covers, eyes wide, knowing I won’t get a wink of sleep again tonight. “Only a dream. Only a dream. Only a…”

  SEVEN

  School. Tired and grumpy. I hate the nightmare more than ever. I’m a teenager. I should be dreaming about getting hot and steamy with movie stars, not about killer babies. I was sure I’d leave the dream behind as I got older, but no such luck. I still have it two or three nights a week.

  I barely listen in class at the best of times. Today I tune out completely and scribble crude drawings over my books. I suck at art but I like to doodle when I’m bored.

  Most of my teachers ignore me. They know I’m a lost cause and they don’t try to reach out to me. They also know I’m not someone you mess with. One of them crossed me a couple of years ago. I’d been in a fight and had been sent to the principal’s office. The teacher saw me waiting outside and whispered something to one of his colleagues. Both men sniggered. Then he said out loud, “But what can you expect from someone with a father like that?”

  Someone punctured the tires on that teacher’s car. Someone found out where he lived and threw a brick through his window. Someone stuck up pictures of him around the local area with his phone number and the message, Ring for a good time!

  I’m not saying who that someone was, but after he came creeping up to B Smith in school one day and meekly said, “Sorry for what I said about your dad,” he was left in peace.

  I fall asleep in history. Jonesenzio is duller than most of our teachers. I’m not the only one to snooze in his class.

  “Fire!” someone hisses in my ear and I jolt awake, almost falling off my chair.

  Meths and Kray laugh their faces off as Jonesenzio scowls at me.

  “Sods,” I spit at them, rubbing my elbow where I hit it on the desk.

  “If you’re quite finished…” Jonesenzio murmurs.

  “Sorry, Mr. Jones,” I simper. “I thought I saw a mouse.”

  He drones on. I don’t mind Jonesenzio. He’s given me a C on every essay we’ve been assigned for the last three years, even though I’ve never handed one in.

  Mum sometimes grouches about my lousy grades. “How come you don’t do as well in the other subjects as you do in history?” Dad tosses me a wink when she goes on like that. He had Jonesenzio when he was younger. He knows the score.

  “I bet you were dreaming about me,” Meths chuckles, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb the teacher. Jonesenzio doesn’t complain if you talk loudly in his class, but he stops talking and stands there silently, looking at you politely, which is even worse. A couple of us tested him once and found that he’s happy to do that for an entire class. You’ll never out-patient the Jones.

  “Yeah,” I tell Meths. “It was a real nightmare.”

  Meths is the biggest guy in our year, and the oldest. He started school a year later than most of us and has been held back twice. That’s where he got his nickname, short for Methuselah. I wish I could lay claim to that but it wasn’t one of mine. I’d no idea who Methuselah was until someone explained it to me.

  “You can copy my notes later,” Kray says seriously.

  “Notes?” I take the bait.

  He holds up a drawing. Kray’s a much better artist than me. The picture is of La Lips, naked, being given some after-school tuition by a very animated Jonesenzio.

  I smother a laugh and raise my knuckles for him to knock. “Don’t let Copper see it,” I gasp.

  “I was hoping he could correct any anatomical inaccuracies,” Kray says.

  “Like you haven’t seen La Lips in the swimming pool,” Meths snorts, and this time we all have to smother laughs. It’s an old story that La Lips shows everything in the public pool if you give her a quid. No truth in it as far as I know, but when did that ever stop a good story?

  History ends (if only!) and we roll out into the yard for lunch. I swipe a bag of chips and nick a bar of chocolate from a girl in a lower year. She tries to fight me for it but her friends pull her off. I sneer as they haul her away. She had a narrow escape. In my current mood I’d have happily taken her into the toilet and half drowned her. If her friends hadn’t pulled her clear when they did…

  I spend most of the break with Meths, Kray, Trev, Bally
defeck, Suze, La Lips, Copper, Dunglop and Elephant. The usual gang, except for Linzer and Pox, who are off somewhere else.

  There’s a new zombie clip circulating on the Internet. Copper shows it to us on his phone. It’s footage of an undead soldier. If the clip is genuine, it looks like he was one of the team sent in to eliminate the Pallaskenry mob. He must have been infected, got away, tangled with some humans later.

  In the clip, several men are pounding the zombie with shovels and axes. One of them strikes his left arm a few times and it tears loose. Another of the men picks it up and starts whacking the zombie over the head with it, cheered on by his team.

  I laugh the first time I watch the clip. Most of the others do too. It’s comical, a guy being slapped around with his own severed arm.

  Then, as Copper replays it a couple of times, I start focusing on the finer details. The terror in the men’s eyes. The rage and hunger in the soldier’s. The flecks of dried blood around his mouth, a sign that he must have fed prior to his run-in with the vigilantes. The long bits of bone sticking out of his fingers. His fangs.

  The clip stops with the guys hitting the zombie, leaving us to guess how it ends. I imagine one of the group chopping off the soldier’s head with an ax, the men pulping it beneath their feet, not stopping until every last scrap of brain has been mulched. That’s how they kill zombies in films, by destroying their brains. Does that work in real life too? I assume so but I’m not sure.

  There’s silence when Copper turns off his phone. We’re all troubled by what we’ve seen. We can’t even make a joke about it. Not yet. It feels too real at the moment. We need time to absorb and then dismiss it.

  Elephant starts rabbiting on about soccer in order to break the solemn spell. He’s a real fanatic, goes to matches all the time. I watch the highlights on TV most weeks, so that I can discuss the goals with the others, but soccer bores me.

  Elephant finishes moaning about the weekend’s match and pauses for breath.

  “Enough already,” I snap. “You’re driving me crazy.”