The Restless Dead: A Zombie Novel

by Thomson, Jenny

  In our situation, Doyle’s the kind of psychopath we need watching our backs.

  Scott raises a comical eyebrow. “So, what do you think, Emma? Should we?”

  “Aye,” I say. “You gut him like a fish with the Stanley knife while I grab the keys. What could possibly go wrong?”

  For a moment as we laugh, I imagine that we’re back in our flat, watching one of our favourite shows, until the laughter fades and Scott turns serious. “Listen, Emma, whatever you do, don’t piss Doyle off.”

  “Okay.” We share a small kiss. Scott tastes of tea and the salty cracker we shared.

  Doyle returns, and I tilt my head in his direction, but don’t say a word. He examines his fancy Swiss army watch - bombing innocent civilians needs precision timing. “We have to get moving.”

  I don't want to go. No way am I abandoning Kenny and Mustafa. “Just another ten minutes.” I show him my tea. I've deliberately left some. I need an excuse to delay us further. “I’d like to finish this.”

  “Five.” He snaps it like an order. Who the hell does he think he is?

  Panic burrows inside my stomach like cancer. Please to God, can civilisation be more than just us three? The world will be a more screwed up place than it already is if a suicide bomber survives and a nice guy like Kenny doesn’t.

  11 MUSTAFA’S STORY

  “For Christ sake, Kenny, where did you get this heap of junk from? The scrap yard? The pedal cars I had as a kid were faster.”

  They were heading out to Bearsden to see his family, but with the way this heap was chugging along he'd be amazed if they made it that far. Smoke was belching out of the exhaust as though it was a factory chimney and the thing kept backfiring, jolting them out of their seats. On the plus side, any of those freaks they encountered soon scarpered when it sounded like fireworks were shooting out the exhaust.

  Even in their fried brains they must have had some inbuilt survival mechanism to alert them to danger or ‘collective consciousnesses’ as Kenny called it. Or maybe their heads were bursting, which would explain their rage. Kenny had been watching the freaks as they'd driven by and he’d pointed out the ones on the ground with their hands cradling their heads, groaning.

  “Quit your complaining, Muzz.” There’s mock outrage in Kenny’s tone. “It gets me from A to B.”

  He gave him a sideways glance. “You have to start it with a fucking screwdriver.” He pointed to the tool on the dash where Kenny had pitched it after fiddling under the bonnet.

  “It only cost me 150 quid.” Kenny says it with a proud grin on his mug, as though being a cheapskate was anything to boast about.

  “Must have seen you coming, pal. Lucky it even started in this cold.”

  Kenny bristled, “Okay, smart arse, where’s your car?”

  “Saving up for a Maserati Gran Cabrio Sport, aint I?”

  Other folk would have taken the piss, but not Kenny. Behind his glasses, his eyes glistened with interest. “How much will that set you back?”

  He whistled through his teeth. “A lot of brass.”

  “You’ll have your pick of fancy cars now, Muzz. And women. This is boom time for single guys such as ourselves.”

  Mustafa grinned. He doesn’t tell Kenny he’s promised to marry his cousin in Pakistan. If there still is a Pakistan.

  Not that they’ve come across any women lately, anyway, unless he counts the gobby cow Scott is lumbered with. Not that he’d say that to her face because she knew how to wield a baseball bat like a psycho. He'd seen it with his own eyes.

  Kenny’s comment got him thinking that maybe he should see what was happening in Glasgow as an opportunity and not as a freaking nightmare. Maybe that’s the way to play it, instead of all this doom and gloom stuff and we’re all gonna die because there’s cannibals round every corner wanting to chew on our brains. These zombies could be his way out of an arranged marriage to a girl he’d never met. Knowing his luck, his intended probably looked like one the two monstrosities from that movie East is East: all buckteeth and glasses.

  His high spirits nosedived the minute Kenny drove down the road leading to his house, and he saw a body sprawled on the road.

  “Look out!”

  Kenny swerved to try and miss it, but there wasn't enough time. A crunch was followed by a hellish squeal, as though a dog had been run over, then the spin of wheels as the car kept going until it slammed onto the pavement, knocking over a bin and skidding onto someone’s front lawn.

  He glanced at Kenny, sitting dazed in the driver’s seat. “Dunderheid.” Then he leapt out of the car. He wanted to make sure they hadn’t run over someone he knew.

  Worry pounded in his head as if a thrash metal band had taken up residence inside as he made his way to the body lying on the ground.

  When he reached the broken carcass he couldn’t tell whether it was a man or a woman because the body was face-down, and the back of the skull had been crushed in, maybe by Kenny’s car, or perhaps it was that way before they arrived.

  He used a foot to roll over the body. His eyes homed in on the midsection first. The person was wearing a postman’s outfit. The ribs were stripped of flesh. His eyes drifted up to the face. It’d been flattened like a mask, and an eye has been torn from the socket. Flesh had been ripped from the cheeks, and the nose and lips were missing, making the face resemble a half-assembled skull from a museum. There was no blood. Whoever this was had been dead a while.

  “Fuck.”

  Kenny hadn’t left the car. He was sitting in the driver’s seat no doubt fiddling with those fucking specs as if that was gonnae save the world. Heroes got cute blonde cheerleaders; Mustafa got Kenny, the Milky Bar kid. He wished he could trade. And he wondered why he brought Kenny here? All he was going to do was get in the way. But he'd needed Kenny’s wheels.

  He was about to tell Kenny to get his lazy backside out of the motor and help him move the body, when a bony hand rose up from the ground and scrunched his balls like they were a stress ball. It happened so fast he didn’t have time to cry out, never mind break away. The breath was being squeezed out of him from down under and as he choked for air, he felt himself falling as the corpse dragged him towards its jagged teeth and certain death.

  No matter how hard he kicked and tried to haul the hand away, it remained stuck to his crotch. He was going to die in the jaws of a half-dead corpse that stunk of rotting dog, and that speccy-eyed loony tunes in the front seat wasn’t even going to fucking notice.

  12 A SON’S DUTY SUCKS

  A hand appears out of nowhere and rams a screwdriver into the corpse’s one good eye. The skeleton spasms. At first Mustafa thinks he’s hallucinating as he's dying. Then the weight on his gonads falls away and leaves him writhing on the deck, choking with the dry heaves.

  “Is it deid?” Kenny asks.

  Mustafa can hear him talking, but he can’t answer him. He’s too busy trying to get a breath. His guts felt like they were tied in knots.

  “You okay, mate?”

  What a moron. “Do...I...look...okay?”

  Cupping his jewels doesn’t help much, but eventually his lungs start working again.

  He spits. “Thanks, Kenny.” Gormless saved his life.

  “It’s nothing. The bastard needed a hole in his brain to be dead for good.” He flashes a brief smile as he pulls the screwdriver out of the socket. “Nifty, eh?”

  He sat up, still a bit wobbly. Kenny seems chuffed with himself because he’s blushing. Probably didn’t realise he had it in him. What’s happening in this city is making men out of them both.

  When they reached the house, Mustafa lifted his shaking hand to the door handle. It turned. He pushed it open, half-expecting some mutant bastard to jump at him, cling to his back, and try to chew on his brain.

  A sudden motion charging him freezes the blood in his chest until he realises it’s their pet Jack Russell, Jock making a break for the open door. He doesn’t try to stop the dog’s escape, unlike humans dogs weren’t being hun
ted by those flesh eating fuckers. They were playing it smart: roaming in packs. So far, they'd stayed away from humans. Dogs were smart.

  “Come on, Kenny.”

  The phone table was lying upended on the floor. As he walked down the hallway towards the living room, with every step he’s aware that he could be attacked at any moment. Be bitten, or worse: have his body opened up like a tin of Spam.

  With music from The Exorcist playing in his head, slowly, he opens the living room door, braced for what he’ll find.

  At first look, the room appeared to be unoccupied. The curtains were drawn and the coal fire was burning, the light reflecting off wall photos, a cuckoo clock, and the ornamental Samurai sword his father got as a gift that took pride of place in a frame above the mantelpiece.

  Flickering light from the dying embers dappled the room, reminding him of the fun his family used to have whenever there were power cuts. They’d make toast and pancakes on the fire and entertain themselves with shadow puppets.

  He was so caught up in the memory that he jumped when his father moved. He hadn’t seen him there, sitting in his favourite chair, wrapped in a tartan blanket.

  “Dad, is it really you?”

  He had to ask. The ability to speak and understand speech is one way of telling if someone has become infected, according to Kenny, the zombie expert. He’s currently standing in the hall, waiting to hear if it’s all clear to come in.

  His father eyes him like he’s a complete imbecile. “Of course it's me. Who else would I be, Amitabh Bachchan?”

  Mustafa relaxed at the mention of his dad’s favourite Bollywood star. Everything’s okay, after all, so he should just stay here with his family. See this through until the city goes back to some semblance of normality, instead of fucking Zombieland.

  Scott and Emma would be okay by themselves. Heck, they might even be holed up in her sister’s house right now and not even have bothered going to the castle. Who could blame them if they’d found a good place to hole up in until things went back to normal?

  He bent down and wrapped his dad in a bear hug, which feels weird because he can’t remember the last time he hugged his old man.

  His father’s booming voice filled the room. “The power's been off for six hours. Those damn power companies take all our money and leave us to freeze. This would never happen in Pakistan.”

  In spite of what he’d witnessed, that comment makes Mustafa grin. Quite a lot of things would never happen in Pakistan. Everything his dad doesn’t like about Scotland, in fact.

  His dad continues. “Your mother has taken to her bedroom. You know how she is.” His eyes moved to Kenny’s form in the shadows. “And who is this you have with you, son?”

  Kenny moved out of the shadows and came into view. The screwdriver is sticking out of his back pocket. “Hello, Mr. Akhtar. It’s Kenny.”

  “Yes, Kenny. Nice to see you, boy.” There's genuine affection in his voice, which is surprising because he once referred to Kenny as a “four-eyed imbecile.” And that was on one of his more pleasant days. His dad has always thought his son should only hang out with “good Muslim boys.” Little did he know his Muslim friends were the ones rebelling. His former best pal, Assad was never out of lap dancing bars. Mustafa took his Muslim beliefs more seriously.

  “Where’s Azra?” Mustafa asked his father.

  A shadow of fear crossed over his father’s eyes. “Your sister attacked me, bit me, can you believe that?” He holds out his arm. It’s not bleeding, but deep teeth marks are clearly visible. “Now I have a splitting headache.”

  “Headache,” Kenny asks, coming closer. “How bad?”

  “Like my brain is dying, son.”

  Mustafa feels as though that dead freak’s hand is clamping his balls again, squeezing the life out of him. “Where is Azra now, Dad?”

  His dad's eyes were wary. “I locked her in her room. She won’t be getting out until she stops behaving like a bloody animal.”

  Kenny glanced at Mustafa and spoke to him in a low voice. “That’s not good news, mate. She’s infected.”

  He doesn’t want to believe it, but the energy’s draining out of his old man, right before their eyes. He falls back in his chair. Mustafa had always thought of his dad as being this fearless giant, but slouched back in that chair, he looked sickly and broken.

  “Dad.” Mustafa sat on the arm of the couch, and reaching across the small gap, took his father’s hand. It’s cold and clammy. “Is she sick?”

  His dad’s jaw slackened. “Who?”

  “Azra.”

  “Who’s Azra?”

  “My sister. Your daughter.”

  He scowls. “Don't get impudent with me, boy. Now go and fetch your brothers.”

  Mustafa’s eyes narrowed. How could he fetch his brother when he was miles away in Pakistan? And why did his dad say brothers when he only had the one?

  Kenny’s stood in the doorway again, fiddling with those bloody specs. “His mind is turning to mush.”

  Mustafa examined his father closer. His face was as grey as ash from the coal fire. “Dad, you’re not well.”

  “Are you going to fetch your brothers or not?”

  The tone of his father’s voice would usually have him scurrying off to comply with his wishes, but on this occasion, he can’t.

  “You only have two sons, Dad.”

  “How can you say that, Amir, after all your mother and I have done for you?”

  “I'm not Amir, I'm Mustafa.”

  There's no recognition in his father’s eyes, just a vacant stare.

  Mustafa doesn’t want to think about the bite. But he knows he has to ask.

  “Why did Azra bite you, dad? Is she sick?”

  His dad’s jaw slackened. “Who?”

  Mustafa turned to Kenny. “I need to get my mother down here.” He knew his dad had the dementia they mentioned on the news that Scott was telling him about. It came after the bite and at the onset of the fever before people ‘died’ only to rise again Voodoo style, driven to feast on the living.

  Kenny said, “You know there's nothing we can do, man.”

  Murder him? Is that what he’s suggesting?

  Mustafa wants to punch Kenny so hard that the frames of those ridiculous National Health specs would start birling round his trophy-sized ears.

  Kenny must have seen the rage in Mustafa’s eyes because he took a few steps back. “I’m sorry, Muzz, but we have to do this. He’s no your dad any more. At least, he won’t be for much longer.”

  Mustafa glances over at his old man who’s babbling away to someone only he can see. From the moment Mustafa saw the bite mark, he knew his father was a goner. “First I have to go upstairs to find my mother. She’ll want to say goodbye to him.”

  He headed for the stairs.

  “Wait,” Kenny called him back. “You need a weapon.” He offered him the screwdriver from his back pocket.

  “No thanks.” Mustafa felt queasy at the thought of needing a weapon to use on his mother, to stab her in the eye like Kenny did to the undead corpse outside. He could never do that, not to his mother.

  “What if she's a dead bastard? You have to protect yourself.”

  “Aye, I do, but not a screwdriver.” His eyes come to rest on the ornamental Samurai sword on the wall. He hoped it was as sharp as it looked.

  He lifted it off the nails it was resting on whilst Kenny peered over his shoulder. The weight of the sword felt comfortable in his hands. Running a finger down the blade, he gauged the quality of the sharp edge.

  A thump from behind him makes him jump and he nicked his fingertip. He whipped round. The armchair was on its side, and his father lay motionless on the floor.

  “Dad?” Mustafa got down on his knees and listened to his father’s chest. He wasn't breathing.

  “Dad!” He wanted to wail with grief, but he knew what would happen next. His own dad would get up and try to eat him.

  Kenny was behind him, “Is he dead?”


  “We were talking to him a minute ago. He can’t be...” He can’t bring himself to say the word dead.

  Kenny lifted his dad’s arm and felt for a pulse. Then he shook his head as he pressed two fingers to the old man’s neck. “Nothing. He’s gone but not for long.”

  Tears stung Mustafa’s eyes. He hadn't cried since he was a little boy.

  Kenny set a hand on Mustafa’s shoulder. “Sorry, mate, but you’ve got to cut off his head.”

  “No. I can’t.”

  “Muzz, he’s been bitten. You know what he’ll do next.”

  True. Mustafa dragged himself up off his knees, and with hot tears burning his eyes, he stood over his dad’s body and recited a prayer. Then he leaned down and used the knuckles of his fingers to close his father’s eyes.

  He had no idea how long he stood over the body before Kenny’s words jarred him back into the reality of the present. “Mustafa, we need to get on with things. Your dad was a proud man. He wouldn’t have wanted to end up being one of those...things.”

  “I know.” He raised the sword. It felt like a dead weight above his father's head, but he hesitated to strike, gritted his teeth. In spite of what that body will become, it was still his father lying there. How could he even consider what he was about to do?

  He brought his arm and the sword back down.

  “I can't do it, Kenny. I just cannae.”

  “I’ll do it,” Kenny said and he pulled the screwdriver out of his back pocket.

  Mustafa almost accepted the offer. Almost handed the sword over to Kenny, but he pulled it back at the last moment.

  His kin, his duty.

  “No.” He raised the sword again, and with an agonising cry that came from deep inside his heart, he brought the sword down with all his strength. The blade sunk into the man’s neck and stops at bone. He had to haul it out again, start over. Through the blur of tears, he raised the sword and swung it. The second time was easier.