Her body was smoking hot: legs up to her armpits, backside you wanted to cup in your hands. He can see everything through her see-through negligee, down to the triangle of hair between her legs. The ratty hair on her head is the colour of mud and tumbles down her shoulders, some landing on her full breasts, and for a fleeting second he imagines it swishing against his chest as they get busy. But then her blood-caked negligee takes away some of the allure, and before he’d get his jollies, he’d probably vomit at the look of her face.
He’s so transfixed by this zombie ex-hottie that he doesn’t warn Muzz before she locks her arms around his waist like she’s locking him in a lover’s embrace.
What she does next is unexpected.
Instead of going straight for the meat on his neck, she bumps and grinds against Muzz, and there’s not a thing he can do about it. One wrong move and this insatiable zombie hottie could end him with one bite, one scratch.
Kenny’s mesmerised by this display and his glasses are steaming up, but he knows he might miss something if he takes the time to wipe them.
Mustafa’s damn near bawling. “Don’t just stand there, Kenny. Help me.” His voice is like bagpipes being strangled.
One of her emaciated hands reaches down to his crotch and massages him through the cloth of his pants. Despite his terror, Kenny bets Muzz has got a stiffy.
“Don’t just stand there gawking. Help me,” screams Mustafa.
Kenny tries to pull his eyes away and get his feet to move, but he can’t. It’s like he’s watching a bad movie, but with a scantily clad babe in it, so he can’t turn it off. He knows its rubbish, and he could be doing something worthwhile (in this case helping Muzz) but his eyes are glued to the porn show.
Mustafa’s losing his cool. He starts struggling to escape her clutches, a move that could send him straight to zombie hell.
She hisses at him, baring her teeth like a wild mink.
Kenny’s finally snaps out of it. He takes his screwdriver out of the big man’s eyeball and rams it into hottie’s left ear, shoving the shank in as far as it will go. It makes a squishy sound, and he hears bones snap. She falls backwards, freeing Muzz as she lands on the snow where Kenny watches her brain fluid leak out. The stuff’s a dirty green, and he can’t take his eyes away until she stops twitching.
Muzz’s pleading with Kenny not to tell anyone he was molested by a randy corpse.
‘What?’ Kenny says, laughter threatening to break out. “That a zombie tried to shag you?”
“I’m sorry I hit you, mate. But, if you say one word to anyone I’ll belt you again.”
Kenny was too busy filing away the fact that a dead bastard had sexual urges that were more important than munching on brains, to hear what Muzz was saying.
He hadn’t expected that. The zombie apocalypse was full of surprises.
***
It was early afternoon by the time they made it to the castle. Mustafa parked at the foot of the hill next to a Land Rover Kenny assumed belongs to their pals, and they started the long trudge up the hill not knowing what or they’ll find. Maybe there’d be more survivors; people Emma and Scott had met along the way? Kenny liked the thought of that.
15 NEW BEGINNINGS
We’re pouring tea Scott’s made on the camping stove into a flask (yet another task I’ve come up with to delay our departure) when Doyle marches in. “Are your pals a gormless looking guy with glasses and a bloke who looks like Sayid from Lost - after he’s been held captive?”
“Aye,” we say, smiles tugging at the edges of our lips. My heart does a wee skip; they’ve made it.
Doyle carries on. “Well then, they’re alone.”
Scott and I exchanged despairing glances. Why didn’t they bring Mustafa’s family? Something must’ve happened to them. Now we were more alone than we’d thought, but at least Kenny and Mustafa had made it back safe.
When we clapped eyes on the pair, they reminded me of people I’d seen in disaster zones, people who’ve lost everything: torn clothes and eyes that can’t meet our gaze because they’re staring off into the distance, recalling the horrors they’ve witnessed.
Mustafa’s He-Man t-shirt and crotch hugging jeans, are caked in blood, and there’s smudges of what I would have once thought was paint on his face, but I know its body fluids. He’s carrying a samurai sword and even from here, I can see blood on the blade.
Kenny’s hair resembles a wild hedge, and he’s frantically trying to clean his glasses with something that used to be a hankie, but it’s so filthy it looks more like a rag. His top’s riddled with holes, and he reeks of pee, puke, and poo (they don’t show the projectile body fluids in the movies when they show zombie slaying) and he has a fat lip. I don’t ask him how he got it. Instead, I go over to him and give him a hug. His body feels stiff in my arms. For a moment, I forget Mustafa hates my guts and I almost hug him too.
“How did you two get on?”
I needed to ask. To find out how bad it was out there.
Mustafa raised his head and met my gaze. His eyes are dark smudges from lack of sleep, and he glances uneasily at Doyle, no doubt wondering who the hell he is. To be honest, I’m not even sure myself.
“I had to cut off my own dad’s head with a fucking samurai sword and sort out my wee sister and mum. Apart fae that everything's fine and dandy. Youse?”
“Sorry, Muzz.” I shut my trap after that. There was nothing I could say.
We decide to leave whilst it was still light.
We were heading out of the castle when Kenny stopped us. “We need to leave a message telling anyone who comes here where we’re headed.”
None of us has anything to write with.
“What about your lipstick, Emma?” Mustafa pipes up, scrutinizing me like he’s a judge on the 1970’s version of Miss World.
I can’t believe he just said that. “Lipstick. We’re fleeing dead bastards, and you think I’ll have lipstick? Maybe you can use my hairdryer too?”
He wrinkles up his face. “Aye, right enough. You’ve really let yourself go. You’re starting to look like a dead bastard.”
Scott has to put out a hand to stop me from lunging at Mustafa as the others chuckle away. I’m so pleased I’ve provided some comic relief.
“Here’s something you can write with, Kenny.” Scott digs through his backpack and produces a piece of charcoal.
Doyle stands there looking as though Scott’s just brought out a fluffy bunny
“I’m a teacher,” Scott says. “I usually have art supplies in my possession.”
Kenny accepts it and scurries up the stairs of the castle.
A few minutes later, and with Doyle eyeing his watch, Kenny sprints back into view. “It’s done.” He returns the charcoal to Scott.
“Let’s get going,” Doyle says. He's agitated. ”We should have left two hours ago.”
Mustafa casts a shifty glance in Doyle’s direction. “Who the hell are you?”
“That’s Doyle,” says Scott, nodding his head in the direction of our new companion. “He saved Emma and me when we were surrounded by hordes of those things. We thought it was curtains for us.”
He conveniently left out the bit about the bomb, but considering the circumstances that seemed wise. Things were complicated enough. Besides, Doyle was the one with the car that mowed down zombies with such ease. Kenny’s car looked like it couldn’t mow down a Barbie doll.
As we make our way down the hill, Kenny says, “I need to get some petrol for my car.”
I imagine dead bastards stalking the petrol stations like African lions at a watering hole. Doyle must’ve been thinking the same thing.
“We take my Rover,” he says. “I’ve got extra diesel, and the brush guard on the grill makes it great for running down those bastards.”
Kenny’s about to say something when Mustafa butts in. “Your rust bucket has seen better days, Kenny. It’s likely to break down and leave us stranded.”
Kenny grudgingly agrees. At least I
thought he had until we get to the bottom of the hill where the cars are parked, and he opens his car door.
For a second I think he’s not listening, not giving a damn what Mustafa and Doyle are saying, but he tosses the keys onto the dashboard. “In case someone comes by and needs a ride.” He shrugs. “If they can figure out how to start it without a screwdriver.”
His words make me smile. Despite the predicament we’re in, the guy’s still thinking of others.
Mustafa claps Kenny’s shoulder and tosses the sword into the back of the Rover. Moments later, we’ve all piled in: Scott, Kenny, are on either side of me in the back seat and Mustafa’s riding shotgun. I'm wondering where Doyle put the bomb vest when I do something real dumb. I ask Doyle where he put the bomb.
Mustafa turns to face me. “What bomb?”
Scott eyes me disapprovingly as though there was some agreement between us not to mention this. Like Kenny and Mustafa aren’t going to notice if they come across a bomb.
There’s no way to avoid telling them about Doyle.
“He’s a terrorist,” I say, as matter-of-factly as I can. “There’s a suicide vest around here somewhere.”
Mustafa’s temper explodes. “For fuck’s sake, why did you no fucking tell me he’s a mad bastarding suicide bomber?”
His fists are clenched so firmly his knuckles turn white.
Scott jumps in, “He saved us, Muzz. We were gonners. They had us surrounded. He could have left us there, but he didn’t. He stopped to help us; put himself in harm’s way to save us. Now we trust him. We’ve got to.”
“Aye, until he goes all Jihad on your arse.”
Mustafa yanks open the door and jumps out so fast it’s like somebody lit a fire under him. Or in this case, a bomb. “I’m not getting in a car wi’ the likes of him. A suicide bomber? Are you crazy?” He slams the door and stands there looking around.
Doyle sits tight. For all his concern, Mustafa might as well be discussing the weather.
Doyle rolls down the window. “Suit yourself, pal.” He starts the car.
“Hey, give me my sword,” says Mustafa to Doyle.
Kenny opens his door and stuns us all by doing a Krakatau on us. “For fuck sake, Muzz, park your arse back in the fucking car so we can get the hell out of here. I'm no going to let you end up a human kebab, so don’t make me knock you out and drag you in here.”
Kenny spits the words out with so much venom his specs fall off his nose. Doyle deftly catches them without blinking and hands them back to Kenny. “Settle down, pal, or you’re going to break something.”
Mustafa’s standing there with a what-the-hell look on his face.
I’m biting back a giggle. I get a sense of satisfaction at seeing Mustafa squirm while Kenny rants on. Scott doesn’t help by whispering, “And here was me thinking you say assalaam alaikum when meeting another Muslim.”
Kenny carries on. “Muzz, the world has changed. Whatever caused this zombie outbreak has spread everywhere. The few of us left have to work together. We have to stick together. We have to start over, so we need to forget about what’s happened in the past, because it’s them or us now, and I want all of us to survive.” He puts on his glasses. “Now, get in the fucking car.”
Mustafa gets in, his mouth puckered like he’s smoking a cigarette, and he’s muttering away about this being the bomb mobile. He glares at Doyle. “Where’s this bomb?”
Doyle motions to the floor at Mustafa’s feet. “That backpack there.”
“Fuck.” Mustafa lifts his feet. “I could have kicked it. Set it off. What the hell is wrong with you?”
From where I’m sitting I can see Mustafa’s angry expression, yet Doyle remains impassive as he puts the car in gear.
Mustafa turns to look at us. “Can he no at least move the bloody thing? What if it goes off?”
“That won’t happen,” says Doyle. “There’s a small component missing, and it’s in my pocket. You really think that if those mad bastards get me that I’m going to let them eat me alive? The bomb stays. If I have to die, I’m taking out as many of those bastards as I can.” He turns his head towards us in the back. “If anyone’s got a problem with that they can get the fuck out of my car.”
Nobody moves. As Doyle puts his foot down on the gas, I see Mustafa's red face staring at him.
“You need to learn to calm down, Muzz,” says Doyle.
Mustafa glowers at him. “The name’s Mustafa. Only my pals call me Muzz.”
As Doyle puts his foot down I see Mustafa's smacked arse of a face reflected in the mirror.
Ten minutes later, Mustafa’s complaining about his head being “busting” and asking Doyle if he has any painkillers.
Asking Doyle for anything must grate on Mustafa’s ego.
“I’ve got a first-aid kit in the back. There's some Paracetemol in that. Don't worry, though.” He tosses a wee glance at Mustafa. “They're not suicide bomber pills.”
Mustafa scowls.
I lean over the back seat and rummage about, moving the Samurai sword out of the way, so I can find the kit. When I turn back to the front, I see Mustafa is still scowling. I seize the chance to get him back for his earlier jab at me. “You shouldn’t scrunch up your face, Mustafa. It makes you look ugly, like one of those dead bastards.”
He snatches the kit from my hand without so much as a thank you, and I’m about to tell him he’s an ignorant swine, when I notice Kenny’s eyes are sparkling. He has his Eureka face on, the one he gets whenever some nugget of information pops into his brain.
“You know what's interesting,” he says. “I think the dead bastards have headaches too. Have you seen how they hold their heads when they're not chasing folk? It's as if they have the worst hangover ever.”
He’s right. I remember seeing them holding their heads.
Scott grins at Kenny. “You think about these things a lot, mate.”
Mustafa throws Kenny a confused look. “The dead bastards have limbs hacked off and they keep coming at us. They have chunks ripped out of them, eyeballs hanging, guts spilling out and they don't seem to be in any pain. So why the hell would they have headaches? It doesn't make sense.”
He’s right and I decide to file that information away for later. I’m not even sure if it will come in useful, but what harm can it do knowing the dead bastards’ weaknesses?
Kenny eyes Mustafa like he's a complete idiot. “Their central nervous system chemistry is changing and their brains are decomposing. Christ, if that was happening to you wouldn't you have a sore head?”
Kenny’s off in a world of his own, probably trying to figure out a way to save us all.
Truth is we don't know if Kenny’s theory is true, and it’s not like we can look it up Wikipedia, so we take Kenny at his word. He’s the expert.
We manage a few minutes of peace, until Mustafa realises we’re heading for the St. Enoch’s Centre. He’d been too busy blowing his top at Doyle to even ask.
“A shopping centre? We’re going to a bloody shopping centre. How is that safe?”
“No place is safe,” Doyle says. “But, we need supplies.”
“The survivors always head to a shopping centre,” Kenny says. “But, so do the zombies. They congregate there because that’s where they’ll pick up a strong human scent. They might even remember that a shopping centre is where large numbers of humans can be found.”
Doyle chuckles. “Kenny, this isn’t Dawn of the Dead, pal.”
“Aye it is,” Kenny beams. “It’s exactly like Dawn of the Dead.”
I swallow a lump in my throat. Didn’t everyone die in the end?
15 STAYING HUMAN
The main road into St. Enoch’s blocked with abandoned cars, so we have to make a detour through a housing scheme. Usually there’d be kids spilling out onto the road, having snowball fights and building snowmen, pulling sleds made out of bread crates, and making slides by packing the snow with their shoes until it got all slippery and shiny, but today there’s no sign
of anyone. Instead, we drift through empty streets where much of the snow is undisturbed.
The multi-stories stand like tombstones, and I can’t help but think that’s what they are, giant grave markers to those who haven’t survived.
We’re ploughing through snow on one street when I spot a wee zombie girl with pigtails and unmistakable dead eyes. There’s a ring of blood around her mouth that looks sticky, and her frilly pink dress is torn and splattered with blood. She can’t be more than four years old. Two pre-teens with scrunched up faces, wearing tracksuits and baseball caps, have her doll, and they’re circling her like vultures, throwing it to each other and goading her with taunts of “Come and get it.”
I know if she does go after the doll, they’ll play a cruel game of piggy in the middle or worse, hit her or beat her. The scumbags are bullying her, and I hate bullies.
She’s stumbling around as she swipes at them with her hands, fingers curled into claws, and although I know she’s dangerous, I want to do something to help her. I can’t allow her to bite those boys, whether they’re bullies or not. They might be nasty brats, but they’re survivors who could lead us to others.
“Stop the car,” I yell.
Even as I say it I don’t know what I’ll do once I get out.
Mustafa roars, “You have got to be kidding.”
Scott puts a hand on my arm. “You know she’s one of them.”
As if that makes a difference. She’s a child, all alone with nobody to care for her. If she was my kid, I wouldn’t want someone to just leave her to deal with those bullies. “I can’t just do nothing.”
“She’s right,” says Doyle. “We should stop. Those boys might lead us to other survivors.”
Mustafa stabs him with a dagger stare.
Doyle carries on: “Those kids might be wee bastards but they’re not dead bastards, but they will be if we just leave them here.” He stops the Rover.
The Restless Dead: A Zombie Novel Page 10