Undead (9780545473460)

by McKay, Kirsty

  “Did you see how I hit him?” Alice skips up behind me, oblivious to all laws and full of glee. Her blond hair sticks out at a weird angle. Ha! So she’s not always perfect.

  I pick another window and peer out again. “Oh. I think I see legs. Sticking out from under the bus.”

  “What’s he doing there?” Smitty shoves in beside me at the window. I can feel the heat radiating off his body. It’s oddly comforting. Then he’s off again, climbing over the seats.

  “Is he moving?” Alice says.

  “I’ll just open the doors and peek out . . . ,” Smitty says.

  “No!” we both cry.

  “Very joking.” Smitty clambers up through the hatch. I listen as he walks carefully across the roof of the bus, pauses, then returns to the hatch and lowers himself down again. “Think we just ran over our teacher.” He grins. “Do you think that’ll get us expelled?”

  I gasp. “You’re kidding me?”

  “Yeah, I am,” Smitty says. “Under the circumstances, I think they’d only suspend us.”

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  He gives me his most sincere smile. “Mr. T is pavement pizza.”

  “Oh, gross!” Alice curls her lip in disgust. “Still, he totally had it coming.”

  I’m taking a moment. I’m trying to look busy, tending to the driver, but really, I’m taking a moment. We all are. Smitty’s back up pacing on the roof, Alice seems to be looting the overhead compartments — but actually, we just need a few seconds to calm the hell down.

  We’ve left the driver where he fell. It’s not very dignified — or even practical, as he’s blocking the aisle — but it’ll have to do for now. I check his pulse on his good wrist, like my dad taught me. It’s weak, but regular. I adjust his bandage and make sure he’s breathing OK, and I even place a sweater under his head to cushion it. There’s a bulge in his jacket pocket; I only hesitate a moment before I fish for whatever lies within. A phone. The screen is blank: no reception.

  “See if you can get this to work.” I throw the phone to Alice, who catches it deftly.

  Hopping over the driver’s body, I shimmy under the steering wheel into the driver’s seat.

  I turn the ignition one notch and gingerly press the radio’s ON button. Static blasts out of the speakers, making me jump.

  Following my lead, Smitty switches the TV on. White fuzz fills the screen.

  Snow on the outside, snow on the inside. So much for technology.

  “What about the CB radio?” Smitty points to a small black box, partially hidden under the armrest. “My uncle had one in his basement. It’s how they used to hook up with total strangers before the Internet.” He winks. “Hand me the mouthpiece.”

  I’m guessing he means the black round thing attached to the small box by a long curly wire. I oblige.

  “Now flick that switch to turn it on.”

  A small button on the side. I do so. A static sound hisses out of the box and the number 14 appears in red on a little display.

  Smitty presses something on the side of the mouthpiece, and there’s silence. “Hello?” he says into it. “Is there anyone on this channel? Breaker-break, Breaker-break?”

  I look at him questioningly. He shrugs.

  “Saw it in a movie,” he mutters. “Try twisting that knob and changing the channel.”

  As I turn the knob, the red numbers click up to read 15, then 16, then 17. Still nothing but static. Then 18, 19 . . .

  “Stop!” Smitty shouts. “I can hear someone.”

  There are voices — quiet and distorted, but voices all the same. I hardly dare breathe.

  “What are they saying? Can you speak to them?” Alice shouts.

  “Mayday, Mayday,” says Smitty.

  The voices continue, as if unhearing.

  “Help us, somebody!” Alice shouts.

  “You have to press the button, Malice,” Smitty sneers. He demonstrates. “Is there anybody there? We need help. Repeat, we need help urgently! Come on, people! This is no joke!”

  We listen hard. The voices keep talking, undecipherable.

  “Attention!” shouts Smitty. “Au secours! Au secours!”

  I shoot him a look. “What, we’re in France suddenly?”

  “Anything’s worth a try,” he says, clicking the button on the mouthpiece over and over. “I think I can do Morse code for SOS, but then again I might be ordering takeout.”

  I crack a smile. “I’ll skip the pavement pizza.”

  He grins back.

  “Look,” says Alice, leaning in, “I’m sorry to break up your special weirdo bonding moment, but we need to get help.” She dangles the driver’s phone between her finger and thumb. “The only thing on this phone is the driver’s ear cheese, and Einstein here can’t even figure out how to use the radio.” She bats her eyelashes at Smitty. “We should find a landline and call the police or the army, or something. Get them to come and rescue us. Très quick.”

  Smitty gestures to the door. “Be my guest and lead the way, Malice. I’ll be right behind you.”

  “Loser,” spits Alice.

  Smitty puckers his lips. “Ooh, call me another name. I love it.”

  Alice hurls the driver’s phone at Smitty, who ducks and drops the radio mouthpiece. Both phone and radio smash against the window, and the voices coming from the receiver stop.

  “Great job, guys!” I delve for the radio and try to make it come to life again. A crack now runs down the length of the mouthpiece, and a blue wire is sticking out. Shit. I thrust it into Smitty’s hands. “You’re a boy, aren’t you? Go on and fix it.”

  Alice is right. Action is needed. I head down the aisle, picking the binoculars off the floor where one of my feckless pseudo-buddies has thoughtfully thrown them. Climbing up to the hatch, I hoist myself up to the roof as Smitty did. My arms burn with the effort, but I’m not going to let them see me struggle. The snow is holding off, but it won’t be too long before the light starts to go. Scrambling up onto the slippery surface and standing carefully, I look all around the parking lot and peer through the binoculars into the café.

  I can just make out the shadows of people slumped across tables.

  My breath shortens. One thing to hear Alice tell it; quite another to see it myself. I scan for any signs of life — and spot a building, lights shining through a line of trees to the left of the café.

  Bingo.

  I shout down, “There’s a gas station — they’ll have a phone! We just need to make a run for it.” I lower myself back into the bus and struggle to close the hatch.

  Alice is slumped in a seat looking bored, and Smitty is fiddling with the radio.

  “Time to move.” I get my coat from the rack above my seat. “We need a phone.”

  Smitty looks up. “Yeah, and who knows if Mr. T has any dribbling friends out there, eh?”

  “We don’t know that. Everybody else is still doing dead in the diner.”

  “Hah!” Alice sits bolt upright. “But for how long? Do you know nothing?” She stares at me like I have the mental capacity of a potato. “They die, they come back to life, they eat our brains!”

  “Maybe they have food poisoning. Maybe Mr. Taylor was kind of sick or rabid or something, and was coming to us for help?” Oh, the lameness.

  “Are you blind?” Alice narrows her glare. “That was not Mr. Taylor anymore, that was a zom —”

  “Stop!” I shout. “Do not say . . . that word.”

  “Why not?” She gets out of her seat and walks right up to me, head cocked. “Because that’s what he was.”

  I want to slap her. Because she’s right — again. That in itself is as bad an omen as a bunch of Shakespearian horses eating each other and the dead rising from their graves. The latter of which it wo
uld seem we already have.

  “How come you know so much about them, eh, Malice?” Smitty is in her face. “You’re working up quite a froth there.” He points to the corner of her mouth. “Maybe we should put you into quarantine before you turn.”

  Alice yelps and slaps his hand away.

  I stomp to the door. “We go — now.”

  Smitty is behind me. “Are you sure you want to risk it?”

  “I’m sure you do.” I’m also counting on it. “It’ll be getting dark soon. And real, real cold. So we go while we still can.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.” Alice, newly triumphant — glowing, even — returns to her seat.

  “Good.” I’m at the door. “We need someone to stay here and play nurse.” I point to the driver. “And keep trying the phones and the radio. We’ll be back as soon as we can. Barricade the door behind us, but be ready to let us in.” I’m gambling that she won’t lock us out indefinitely, if only because that’ll mean she’ll be on her own permanently. Like I said, gambling.

  Smitty and I step out into the snow. As I hear the doors close behind us, there’s a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. We immediately forge ahead, no nonsense. Smitty’s legs are longer and he can get through the deep snow much faster.

  “That way.” I point to the left of the trees, although Smitty doesn’t turn around. “Let’s follow the road down.”

  He shakes his head. “We should cut through the trees. More direct route.”

  My stomach clenches. The spooky quotient is off the hook. At least on the road, nothing can jump out at us. And the snow on the road is less deep, making it easier to run if something does appear. I glance back at the bus. Alice’s face is pressed up against the window, pale and ghostly. Suddenly I know with absolute certainty that if Smitty and I are ambushed, we are on our own.

  We reach the trees and pause beside a large sycamore, silent and laden with whiteness.

  “Lights are on.” Smitty points past the gas pumps to the store beyond. “No movement. Think they’re all dead, too?”

  I can’t stop a shiver. “Only one way to find out.”

  We move carefully toward the front of the store, low and quick, then up to its glass doors. I reach for the handle.

  “Wait!” Smitty rasps. “There’s someone by the counter!”

  I look. Sure enough, I can see a man’s head over the top of the cash register. His face is pale and moist, and there’s a tuft of dusty black hair. A cigarette sticks out of the corner of his mouth, a twist of smoke curling into the air as he stares at us. For a moment I wonder if it’s a floating head, then a hand snatches the cigarette away from the mouth.

  Thankyougod. A real live grown-up person to make everything better.

  “Piss off!” A voice crackles over a loudspeaker. “The door is locked. Get lost!”

  Smitty bangs on the glass. “Let us in, mister! Come on, we need help!”

  “No!” the man shouts. “Go away!”

  “Sir, we’re just kids!” I shout back. “And our bus driver needs a doctor. You’ve got to help us!”

  “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll sod off now!” the man yells, and disappears behind the counter.

  “We need a phone, you tosser!” Smitty kicks the door.

  I spot a sign, CUSTOMER TOILETS, with an arrow pointing around the corner. “Come on,” I call to Smitty. “Maybe there’s a way in at the back.”

  Sure enough, there is.

  “In here.” Smitty runs ahead and pulls me through a door, like it was his idea. It’s dark inside. There’s a short corridor with two doors on either side. One is marked TOILET, the other PRIVATE. We try that one.

  It’s darker still inside. I reach for the switch. Yellow light blinks on. Thankfully, nobody’s home. It’s a janitor’s closet, with a second door at the other end.

  “There’s our way in.” Smitty tries the handle. “Locked. Bet we can force it open with something in here.” He starts to search the shelves.

  I know the time has come. I’ve been putting this off for way too long.

  “I’ll check out the bathroom,” I tell Smitty. “I’ll be right back.” I leave the room and quietly open the door marked TOILET. Three stalls and a single basin. I duck into the first cubicle, silently lock the door, unzip my jeans, and sit down with a shudder. Life-endangering situations or not, when you gotta go, you gotta go.

  Afterward, everything seems better. I sit for a moment, take a deep breath. It will all be OK. We’ll get into the store, we’ll call the cops, and get out of this hellhole. I’ll be back home in a few hours, eating my mother’s microwaved food and dodging her annoying questions with a comforting and familiar irritability. I rub my face, shake my shoulders, and allow myself to let out a deep, heartfelt sigh.

  Something in the next stall answers me with a terrible, death-rattling moan.

  For a second, I wonder if I imagined the moan. I only do this because I want to have imagined it. I want it so badly.

  I saw a bear once. I was peeing then, too. We were hiking in the mountains back home in the USA — one of the last trips Dad took me on before he got sick. Anyway, I snuck off to take a pee, because I was freaked beyond all perspective that my dad might see me squatting. Like he’d look. Like he’d care. So anyway, there I was, and as I was pulling up my pants, there was the bear, too. Perhaps ten feet away. Beautiful, glossy, and fat, looking at me with molasses eyes. I crouched low, back down into the grass that was wet with my pee, and looked around for a rock or a stick. Any kind of weapon, but there was nothing. When I glanced up again, the bear was gone. Later I convinced myself it had never been there. I hadn’t seen it. Who sees a bear?

  Likewise, just now, I imagined the moan. Clearly. Or it was a gurgling pipe, or Smitty. Yeah, that’s it — the toad has followed me in here and is trying to freak me out.

  The moan comes again.

  It’s not a pipe, it’s not Smitty, and it’s not a damn bear.

  I brace myself against the cubicle walls and slowly climb up onto the toilet bowl, ever-so-quietly pulling up my jeans and the zipper.

  Whatever is next door cries out again, the noise wobbling and building to a wail.

  Panic squeezes my throat. I glance at the door. Locked. Phew. Still, there’s a gap below big enough to crawl under. Not to mention that whatever is next door might simply vault the wall or bash the door down.

  Definitely not safe here. Definitely have to move. Before terror freezes me to the spot.

  It’s panting now: panting, wheezing, and moaning.

  How quick can it run? If it’s a thing like Mr. Taylor was a thing, then probably not very quickly. But there I go, gambling again. I shut my eyes tight and visualize unlocking the latch, sprinting to the bathroom door, flinging it open, then slamming it behind me — maybe finding a way to jam it shut — and shouting for Smitty, who has hopefully found a way into the store by now.

  Probably, maybe, hopefully. Not good words.

  Silence. I open my eyes and ready myself to move, glancing down at my feet bridging the toilet bowl. It’s a tad gross that I haven’t been able to flush, but if it’s yellow, let it mellow . . . and run like hell-o. I have to make a move for the door, and fast.

  As I prepare to leap, there is a new noise.

  A familiar, rasping noise.

  Last time I checked, the Undead have no use for an inhaler.

  Leaning against the wall, I straighten up until I can almost see into the next-door cubicle. Think brave. Standing on my tiptoes, I force myself to peek.

  A boy, crouching on the toilet, his hands covering his face. The white wispy hair is unmistakable. It’s Pete Moore. He of the see-through skin and bus trip stink bomb. Seems he likes to check out the bathrooms anywhere he can. My heart beats a little slower.

  I whis
per, “Hey!”

  “Whaa — !” Pete unfurls like a falling kitten, legs and arms spread, butt sinking into the toilet bowl.

  “It’s OK, it’s just me!” I hiss.

  Pete looks up at me with wild eyes.

  “I’m in your class, remember?” I try to sound reassuring. “Are we alone in here?”

  “Pah!” Pete scuttles into the corner of his stall. “I don’t know . . . Why are you asking me? Where did you come from anyway?” He’s babbling. “Were you in the café? Because if you were, then you should stay away from me. Go back there and don’t come anywhere near me . . .”

  “You were there? Did you see what happened?”

  “Of course I saw it!” he snarls. “I saw the death come!” Then he starts to wail.

  “Shh!” I urge him desperately. “Unlock the door and let me in, OK?”

  “Let me in, she says!” Pete laughs hysterically. “Let me in so I can chew on your arm! Would you like fries with that?” He cackles to himself, wicked crazy. “I don’t think so.”

  Trying not to examine the grimy floor, I jump down, drop to all fours, and shimmy under the partition. As I arrive on Pete’s side of the wall, his manic laughter turns to shrieking, and he kicks out at me. He’s slow and I dodge the first strike, but the second lands on the top of my arm, deadening it.

  “I’m trying to help you, you nut job!”

  No choice but to crawl on top of his legs to try and subdue him, but he’s still screeching, and wriggling like a worm in a puddle.

  “Be quiet already! If there are any more of those things around, you’ll bring them right to us!”

  By some miracle, Pete falls quiet, his arms across his face. He stares at me, head twisted, one pale green eye unblinking and bloodshot. He nods.

  “Good.” I allow myself a tiny dot of relief. “That’s good. Just stay calm. It’s all gonna be OK.”

  There’s a bang and the door flies open. Pete and I nearly shed our skins.

  “Found a boyfriend?”

  Smitty is standing in the doorway, a screwdriver in one hand. “Got the shop door open, if you’re interested. Or you can stay here on the floor with Albino Boy.”