“Ha-ha!” Smitty laughs. “You’ve got some moves, Petey-poo.”
“You left the café?” I say.
Pete nods. “Ran to the gas station. It was locked, so I went around the back and found the toilets.”
Something’s not right. I look down the aisle. Alice is lying across two of the seats halfway up the bus, covered in about five ski jackets. “Did you see Alice before you left?” I whisper.
“No,” Pete replies.
“She says when she came out of the café bathrooms, only Mr. Taylor was standing. And when we looked through the binoculars, we could still see everyone lying on the tables.”
“Well?”
“You said, ‘they’ started waking up.” Smitty says, catching my drift. “Who else woke up before you left?”
Pete shifts uncomfortably. “I don’t know. I didn’t see, exactly. I just heard a noise — a groaning — coming from a direction that wasn’t Mr. Taylor.” He wrinkles his face. “Then there was a crash — like a door slamming. I didn’t stick around to find out who or where or why.”
“Could it have been Alice you heard — coming out of the bathrooms?” I ask.
“Possibly, if she banged the door. But I don’t think it was her groaning, unless her voice dropped a few octaves.”
It doesn’t make sense. Alice said that everyone was passed out on the tables or on the floor. Maybe Pete was mistaken. Or maybe there was someone Alice missed, who came to life, then collapsed again? Or they’d left the building and we simply hadn’t seen them yet?
“Thanks for the bandage, anyway.” Pete gives me a tight smile, gets up, and walks back down the aisle.
Smitty waits a moment. “Believe him?”
I think about it. “Believe Alice?”
He shrugs. “Either way, we’re stuck in a bus with a bunch of nutcases. That’s school trips for you.”
* * *
We take turns sleeping. I’m on first watch, too wired to rest. It’s too cold to leave the hatch open, so I don an extra fleece and ski jacket and brazen it out on the roof for an hour. The snow is light and my leg is too cold to hurt. The flames from the gas station have died down to a glow, but the acrid tang of the smoke remains. The alarm that rang out so shrill and clear has been reduced to a broken-down and erratic buzz, like a cricket pathetically chirping after summer is long gone.
Somebody will come. Eventually. When the bus doesn’t return to school and we can’t be reached on the phone, the parents will start having fits. There’ll be a search party, news reports — dammit, we’ll be D-List celebs by the time this is through. We just might need to make it through the night first, though. I scan the dark corners of the parking lot for movement, feeling more like a target than a lookout, but all is still. Through the trees and down the hill to the left, the lights outside the Cheery Chomper have come on. They are probably on a timer.
Nobody remains.
My father is cleaning my face with a soft washcloth tucked into a pointed corner, and cold, cold water. Around my nose and eyes, it tickles, and it wakes me. I blink the water away.
It’s bright, shockingly so.
But there’s no Dad, just half a cold face.
It was a dream. For a moment, I think it’s all been a dream, until I raise a hand to my cheek and see the white fluttering down upon me — snow. It’s as if each flake is bringing memories of the day before. It happened.
I am lying across the double seat at the front of the bus, next to the door.
And the door is open.
Panic claws at me and I sit up. Where is everyone? A black-booted foot sticking out into the aisle tells me that Smitty is lying on a seat near the back. The makeshift window barricade is in place. Someone is snoring lightly behind me.
But the door is open.
I bolt out of my seat and hit the lever to shut the doors. They oblige, grudgingly. The snowboard that was holding them in place has been carefully moved inside, onto the steps. I quickly reinstate it. Someone has decided to go for a morning walk.
“Hey.”
I spin around. Smitty is standing behind me, his face scrunched by sleep.
“What’s going on?” He scratches his head.
“Who’s missing?”
He frowns at me. “Malice and Pete are in Slumberland. That loser, Gareth? Who cares?”
“Gareth was supposed to be on watch.” I return the frown. “He’s gone, and he left the door open behind him.”
Alice appears from behind a seat, her eyes half-closed.
“What happened?”
“Pete!” I shout.
“Eh?” He sits up suddenly, ruffled and confused.
“Where’s the laptop, Pete?” I demand. “Please tell me you slept on it.”
He smiles lazily. “I have it safe.”
“Really? Because the responsible adult of the group has left us home alone,” I say. “And I’m thinking he might not have gone empty-handed.”
The smile disappears.
“It’s in my bag.” He duck-dives under his seat and retrieves a ratty black and orange backpack. It’s unzipped and empty-looking. He checks inside anyway.
The laptop is gone.
Smitty lets out a battle cry and runs to the doors, flinging the snowboard aside. “Where has he gone? I’ll kill him!” He launches himself into the snow and runs out into the parking lot, darting around the bus, as if Gareth might be hiding behind a corner, chuckling.
“Smitty!” I linger on the steps, unwilling to follow him into the snow. “Come in!”
I was sleeping right by the door. How did Gareth manage to make his escape without waking me?
Smitty climbs back onto the bus, fixes the snowboard back in place, and sinks down on the floor, defeated.
“He’s gone? He’s left us?” Alice is fully awake and getting up to speed.
“What does it matter?” Smitty spits. “He was useless. What matters is that he took with him our best chance to get help.”
“Not necessarily.” Pete stands up, and I’m treated to a whiff of pure morning breath. “He’s probably taken the laptop to the café. That was the original plan. So we follow him.”
I move back a little. “And if the café has Wi-Fi, it probably has a PC. It doesn’t matter if we have the laptop or not.”
Pete nods. “Or there’s a chance we’ll pick up the signal on Smitty’s smart phone. There might even be a landline that works.” He slides into the driver’s seat. “Let’s hope this thing will start on fumes.”
“Wait!” I stop his hand from reaching for the ignition. “Can we make it down the hill? The snow’s even deeper than yesterday.”
Pete hesitates.
“So if we don’t drive, we walk?” Alice says. “Count me out.”
“But what if we can’t get back up here?” I say. “What if there are more of those . . . people, the bus gets stuck, and we can’t escape?”
“Yeah, you’re right, it’s going to be so much better if we’re on foot,” Alice snarls. “Anyway, someone has to stay here to take care of him.” She points to the driver.
I feel a surge of guilt. We’ve pretty much ignored the driver since we finished mending the window. I approach him. He hasn’t moved at all. I reach out to touch his hand and his skin feels waxy and cold.
Alice stares. “Is he . . . ?”
I move my palm over his face. There’s a little warm air coming out of his nostrils. “No. He’s still alive.” But maybe not for much longer. Something about him has begun to smell, too, but I’m afraid to look at his other wrist and unwrap the makeshift bandage.
“Whatever we’re doing, we should do it now,” Smitty says. “I’ll check out the road and clear a path.” He grabs the binoculars and tosses them to me. “You see if we’re likely to have
company.”
* * *
I stand on the roof with Pete and Alice. They followed me, and I didn’t protest. More eyes. Mother Nature is playing ball; the snow has stopped falling and the sun is trying its best to break out from behind a lavender-gray cloud. The air is still, and there’s now just a thin curl of black smoke from the gas station. A last desperate smoke signal. I try not to wonder too hard why nobody has come.
Smitty is riding his board down the road, pausing in places to scrape the ground.
Alice is trying the phones again. She’s managed to acquire them all — even Smitty’s prized smart phone — and she’s holding them in her hands like a deck of cards, shuffling each one to the top, lifting it up, and checking for a signal. Judging by her pursed mouth, she is holding a bum hand.
There’s a movement — I catch it out of the corner of my eye and spin around. A shuffle in the bushes. Steeling myself, I hold the binoculars up. A blackbird scuttles in the undergrowth, and flies out of the cover with a cascading shriek of alarm. Only a blackbird. What startled it? I grip the binoculars tighter. No movement in the bushes now; it was probably frightened by some snow falling from the tree, or another bird. I shiver. It has been years since I’ve heard a blackbird, and suddenly I’m sitting in a sandpit, at home — England Home — many years past. Dad is weeding nearby, whistling like the bird. It seems like a long, long time ago. He’d done no gardening in the States, and the blackbirds are different there. I feel a pang of missing him — raw and sudden. It’s not like he’s even going to be there when I get home. If I get home. I can’t help but feel like this whole thing would never have happened if he was still with us. Certainly it never would have happened if my stupid mother’s stupid job hadn’t made us move back to this stupid country. Still, even if I want to blame my mother for Dad not being here, it might be a little extreme to blame all of this monstery stuff on her, too.
A thump vibrates the bus from within.
My heart jumps.
Alice gasps. “What was that?”
Pete rolls his eyes. “Must you scream at everything? Keep your knickers on. Something’s just fallen off a seat.”
“Are you mental?” Alice shouts. “I didn’t scream!” She turns to me. “Did I scream?”
I shake my head automatically.
From below us, the noise comes again.
Pete drops to his knees. “The bus driver, then.”
“He came around before, didn’t he?” says Alice. “He does that, that’s his thing. Wakes up, passes out, wakes up, passes out.”
I crawl to the hatch.
“Slowly,” Pete cautions.
I lift the hatch just a crack. We peep inside. From where I’m lying I can only see the front of the bus, and there’s no one there. Or they’re hiding behind a seat. I bob up and look toward the road. Smitty has climbed back up now. He’s at the entrance to the parking lot. Soon he’ll be at the bus door.
“I’m going to lift the hatch all the way open,” I whisper to Pete and Alice. “We need to look in the back.”
Alice clutches the neck of her jacket. Pete nods.
I carefully swing the lid of the hatch all the way over until it rests on the roof of the bus. We all shift around, three polar bears fishing in an ice hole, and peep in the other direction.
There is less light in the back of the bus — the improvised barricade on the back window blocks out the sun — and it takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust, but I can see something near the backseat. A figure, facing away from us, bent over as if fastening shoelaces. Slowly, it straightens up, vertebra by vertebra. I recognize the regulation blue coat, the pale blue shirt collar, and thinning gray hair.
“It is the driver!” Alice shouts, her voice light with relief. “Thank god.”
The driver’s head turns around to face the direction of the noise. Turns around completely. Without the rest of his body following.
Then Alice really does scream.
The driver’s visage rushes into view as if through a zoom lens. A face of purple and brown, like a bashed-up fruit. His jaw hangs slack, his head lolls, and there is some kind of green discharge oozing from his mouth. His eyes are milky, unfocused for a second, then his neck snaps up straight and his body turns to face the same direction. An arm is flung out toward us, and my mother’s best cashmere scarf trails through the air in a bloody arc.
Alice screams again. I grab the hatch lid, shut it tight, and sit on it.
“Oi!”
There’s a shout from the front of the bus. Smitty.
“What’s going on? Let me in, will ya?”
I leap up. “Sit on that!” I command Pete and Alice, and skitter over to the end of the bus. Smitty is standing by the doors, hands on hips. “It’s the driver!” I call down to him. “He’s woken up and he’s one of them!”
Smitty stares up at me as if I am speaking another language. A crash makes him look farther down the bus, and the expression on his face turns to sickening comprehension. No further explanation needed.
“We’re stuck up here.”
“How fast is he moving?”
“I don’t know!” I shrug uselessly.
“Let’s see.”
Smitty runs along the side of the coach, slaps the window.
“Oi! Mister! Hell-o!”
“What are you doing?”
Smitty tracks back and slaps the next window down.
“That’s right, this way!” he shouts. He moves to the next window and thumps again. “I’m here!”
“Stop it!” Alice slithers to the edge of the bus roof on her belly like a candy-colored salamander. “Don’t make him angry!”
“I can outrun him, easy!” Smitty shouts. “I’ll get him out and double back.”
“Yes!” Alice cries. “Quickly!”
Smitty reaches the final window, then hits the button on the door. I realize what won’t happen a second before it doesn’t. Our snowboard locking system is doing its job too darn well. Smitty pushes the doors, trying to rattle the board free.
“It’s no good!” he calls up. “Someone is going to have to open it from the inside.”
“Are you out of your tiny mind?” Alice shouts. “You do it!”
“Like how?” Smitty says. “I can’t get up there.” He jumps and tries to catch one of the sideview mirrors to hoist himself up, but it’s too high, even for his monkey skills.
“Then we should jump off!” Alice says. “Leave him locked up in there. Catch me!” She begins to swivel her legs around to dangle them over the edge. I grab her.
“No! Everything is inside the bus.” I hold tight to Alice’s squirming body. “We can’t just leave and take our chances out there. There might be more of them in the café, and who knows how far we’ll have to go before we’re safe? You were the one who said we should stay inside.”
“But he’s inside!”
“Not for long.” I let go and stand up, oh-so-decisively. “He’s slow, like the others?” I shout down to Smitty.
He nods. “I’ll keep him at the front until you’re inside . . . then get him to come toward you while you dodge past.”
“Easy.” I swallow.
“Too right.” He winks.
Pete is lying across the hatch like a starfish. He looks paler than ever.
“You’re going in?” he says.
“Keep the hatch open.” My heart is hammering. “Promise me.”
He grunts and moves aside. Reassuring.
I lift the hatch. “I’m ready!” I shout down to Smitty.
“He’s still at the front,” he calls back. “You’re good to go.”
I take a final breath of the cold, crisp air and lower myself into the bus.
I wriggle down behind a seat. The Undriver is at the front, swayin
g and slapping the windshield. Something is pissing him off. It’s Smitty, jumping up and down on the other side of the glass like his own private whack-a-mole. I ease into the aisle and back down to row 20, where we stored the ski equipment. Carefully, I pull out a ski pole. It’s not an ideal weapon, but it will have to do. I left my submachine gun back in the States. Ha-ha.
Smitty stops jumping and I can’t see him anymore. Seems like the driver can’t, either; he presses himself up to the glass, then stumbles back a step or two, contemplating his next move. I guess this is my cue.
“Hey!”
I bang my pole on the ground.
“Come get me!”
The head whips around again. That’s a neat trick. Must be his signature monster move. It sure is effective. I resist the urge to pee my pants.
“That’s right, mister! I’m back here!”
Oh, my Undead-taunting banter seriously needs work. I always wondered why the heroines in horror movies spend half their time making wisecracks when they fight their opponents. Now I know it’s to distract themselves from thoughts of their imminent death. I edge toward the hatch, painfully aware that it’s my only escape route. The driver begins to head my way. He’s uncoordinated and shambling, but will he suddenly remember how to run? I hold the pole out in front of me and force myself to keep walking. Really it’s just a test of how long I can keep my nerve as he staggers toward me. Maybe I should tell Pete to shut the hatch so that’s not an option? I look up for a second. Alice and Pete stare down at me, faces pale, jaws almost as slack as the driver’s. I cannot mess this up. I will look like a total loser. A dead loser. Or an Undead one.
Forget the hatch. I make myself walk past it. Now it’s the doors or bust. I bang the pole again, take a step forward, one hand on a seat, ready to dart out of arm’s reach.
The driver lurches closer, and believe me, there is no doubt in my mind that he is dead. There’s nothing behind his eyes — no compassion, no anger, no fear. Any semblance of who he once was has gone, replaced by this stumbling, hungry-looking thing, reaching for me. And the moaning. It’s a guttural groaning anchored so deep it sounds like he is trying to bring up oil. Does he have a wife? Kids? Anyone who would recognize him now? How would they feel if they could see him like this?
Undead (9780545473460) Page 6
