His wife frowned. “You can’t know that, dear. Maybe they’ve found a way to leave.”
“Aye, permanently.” William’s words had a finality about them.
Doyle’s gaze flicked between William and Mary. “Have they found any bodies?”
I knew where he was going with this. If people took their own lives, they were hardly likely to get right back up again and dispose of their own bodies.
I’d seen some crazy stuff over the past few days, but dead people who hadn’t been bitten pretty much stayed dead, and if they didn’t stay dead, we were in a worse state than we thought.
“No bodies,” Mary said. “Not that we know of.”
There’s a wistful expression on her face, like she hoped that her friends and neighbours had found a way off the island; that they were alive and well somewhere and this blight hadn’t covered the entire world.
Kenny’s eyes were as alert as ever behind those glasses. “How do you know the island’s clear of wakers? That the missing folk haven’t been eaten, or infected?”
William met Kenny’s gaze. “Murdoch, the local butcher who’s family have also gone missing, he went to look around the island, searching for his missing family. He tells us there’s no sign of any of those things, those wakers.”
Scott’s expression said it all, brows furrowed, jaw clenched. No way was he going to trust the judgement of one man.
27 LOSING OUR HUMANITY
That night, as we huddled around the fire, the flames flickering across the room lighting our faces, we spoke about the missing people and their likely fate.
None of us bought into the suicide theory.
Scott’s first with an explanation of his own. “It doesn't make sense that they’d kill themselves. Their bodies would have been found. The fact they're gone makes me think that there are dead bastards somewhere on the island. There’s got to be.”
Mustafa said, “Aye, that would explain the lack of bodies. They eat everything, the bastards. Even the blood ends up drunk as though its soup.” He puckered his lips as if sucking on a straw.
He was freaking me out and I wanted to slap him. Instead, I decided to make a point. “We only have that butcher’s word that the island’s clear. Can we trust him?”
Doyle nodded. “Why would the guy say he’d checked if he hadn’t? Surely, it’s in his best interest to check thoroughly.”
Scott relished the chance to be Sherlock. “Maybe we need to treat this like any other missing person case. Who are the victims? Do they have anything in common, something that links them? If they do, that might help us solve the mystery.”
Scott’s words had piqued Kenny’s interest. “You know a lot about solving mysteries.”
Scott looked pleased that someone had noticed. “I read a lot of detective novels.” He rested his chin on his hand. “Could someone be killing them to steal their food? Or have they been taken for more sinister reasons?”
If this were a US detective show, by this point they’d have been playing the dramatic da, da, daaaa music. But this was real life, and we were Scottish, so I told him he was talking mince. There was no big mystery to be solved. As interesting a diversion as this is, we had bigger things to worry about. Not least of all staying alive.
“Those people are dead,” I said, wanting to call a halt to the discussion. “Knowing what was coming they wanted to end their lives. Can hardly blame them. They probably threw themselves into the sea and drowned.”
My words hit home, and everybody looked grim. As well as bringing a dose of reality to the proceedings, I’d also managed to depress the hell out of them. On the plus side, there was no proof there were zombies on the island, and that was good news.
Mustafa managed to blow my theory out of the water with one of his trademark smart arsed comments. “Why haven’t their bodies washed ashore then, Emma?”
He spat out my name like an insult. In spite of what we’d been through, his hostility carried on. Was this how it’s going to be? If I said the world is round, would he insist it was square? And I'd thought the days of petty points-scoring were gone. I’d forgotten what an complete idiot the man was.
Battling to keep my voice level, because I didn’t want him to see he’d got to me, I said, “Ever heard of ocean currents? The bodies probably washed up somewhere else.”
I tried to be calm, but I was a volcano about to blow.
I jumped up out of my seat. “Look, things are bad enough as it is without any more god damn conspiracy theories. Don’t we have enough real bogey men as it is without you stupid bastards inventing more?”
Scott moved to put his arm around me and I brushed him aside. The last thing I wanted was to be treated like the wee wummin. I was a zombie slayer. A real kick ass bitch. I didn’t need some man patronising me, especially Mustafa whose life I'd saved, twice, although he’d been quick to forget that. Can’t have macho man being saved by a mere woman. Hell, that’d shake his beliefs about the master sex right down to his tighty white t-shirts.
“There’s one way to find out,” Scott announced to everyone. “Tomorrow, we take a car and explore the island. See if there’s any sign of dead bastards around.”
We could be walking into danger, and I told them that. “But what if they are here? There could be a whole horde of them. I’m not saying this to dissuade anyone. I just want us to be prepared.”
“The island’s too small for a horde of zombies to go unnoticed,” Scott assured us. “But maybe there’s a few.”
Kenny piped up. “It’s better if we find them because they will come for us, eventually. Starvation will force them to.” He took a breather then said, “Besides, we’re getting quite handy at killing them.”
The rush of adrenaline I got thinking about it filled me with shame. Had killing become so routine, so enjoyable that I’d turned into a cold-blooded killer?
In our battle to stay alive were we losing our humanity? And if we were, what was the point in surviving at all?
I didn’t say that aloud, but I couldn’t be the only one thinking it.
28 THE TRUTH? YOU CAN’T HANDLE THE TRUTH.
I could tell Scott’s dad wasn’t buying our lie that we wanted to sightsee around the island. With a sceptical tilt of his bushy brow, he handed over the keys to his Jeep. “You’re looking for those missing folk, aren’t you?”
“Aye, Dad.”
He placed his hand on Scott’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Be careful. Jim Murdoch tells me there’s none on the island, and we haven’t seen a trace of any of those things so far, but like you say, we can’t be completely sure. Murdoch could have missed something even in a small island like this. He’s not a tracker or anything.” There’s a flash of a smile. “Likes to think he is, though.”
We were leaving when he called Scott back for a private word. I left them to it.
A minute later Scott returned with a crease in his forehead. Once we were in the Jeep, I asked him what his dad wanted.
“He wanted you to stay behind where it’s safe.”
So, he did think there were zombies out there?
“And what did you tell him?”
A big smile filled his whole face and he clenched his fist in a power salute. “That I hide behind you because you’re great at slaying zombies.”
A smile crossed my lips. My talents hadn't gone unnoticed; I could only hope to live up to my reputation.
***
An hour later, I regretted not staying behind. There was a lot to be said for a warm hearth and a comforting cup of tea in my hand. Especially when the alternative was freezing my butt off, exploring every nook and cranny of this island. The wind swept in from the east, and turned my bones to ice despite my being dressed like an Arctic explorer. The car heater does little to thaw me out between stops.
What were we going to find out here, anyway?
That question kept going through my mind as we drove from place to place. Dead bastards, bones, the missing folk? Who knew? We wanted the
truth about zombies on the island, whatever that was, because if we’d learnt one lesson since this all began, it was that the truth would come out and bite us on our backsides, or our throats, or our heads.
We’d driven around most of the island, stopping off at any points Scott thought were dodgy and come up with nada. Doyle used high range binoculars he'd borrowed from Scott’s dad to scan wide areas. We were down to the last place of interest that Scott had pinpointed using his in-depth knowledge of the island.
Quarter of a mile before town, we took a sharp left and drove down a short dirt road into a wooded area used as a dump by the farmer who owned it. His family had left for a cattle show on the mainland, and like so many people, they hadn’t made it back.
Tyre tracks led to a shed on the land with a shiny new padlock on the door. Scott parked in front of the shed, and we all piled out, weapons in hand. A little way off, a rusted old caravan sat on flat tyres. We don’t want to alert anyone to the fact we’d been here by breaking the padlock, so we peered through the gap at the door hinges. There was nothing but dark shadows and rusty old farm equipment inside.
Scott and I were examining a standing stone, an ancient rock that experts had been unable to date or explain how it got there, when Mustafa stomped over to us, his face resembling a big worry spot and his hands held behind his back.
Scott’s forehead crinkled with confusion. “What’s up, Muzz?”
“This.”
He held out a bone, a big one at that. Attached to it was a thin string of flesh that reminded me of the leftover Christmas chicken after it’d been stuck in the fridge for days.
Even before anyone said it aloud, I knew it was a human thighbone.
Mustafa’s face was turning green. “I wonder if there are any more around here.”
Scott didn’t get the chance to speculate before Kenny sprinted towards us, holding a bundle of what looked like bones. “Look what Doyle and I found in the grass over there. It was sticking out of the snow.” His voice was an octave higher than normal.
When he got close enough, I saw he was holding half a human rib cage and the bottom half of someone’s arm. Teeth marks were clearly visible, and I doubted they were put there by a dog.
Kenny dumped them on the ground at our feet. “They’re fresh too.”
Doyle arrived behind Kenny, carrying a human head by the hair.
At first glance, it looked unreal, like it belonged to a shop dummy, but I knew better. The shape and size were too realistic, and those eyes that looked ready to pop out of their sockets, couldn’t be anything but real. I could see that the back of the woman’s head was caved in, and there was a gaping hole, like she was a pumpkin someone had hollowed out...to get at the brains.
In life, with her pale Celtic features and piercing green eyes, this woman would have been striking, but in death, all beauty was eviscerated: her teeth were set in a grimace because she’d died screaming in agony, a desperate plea for help that was never answered.
Those discoveries shook us, because for all our William Wallace spirit of wanting to clear every last inch of Scottish soil of the dead bastards, we wanted this to be a safe place. We were battle weary and needed somewhere to lay our heads without worrying we’d be attacked in our beds. I could see the same weariness in the others’ eyes.
Except Scott’s.
He reacted like the head was about to spring to life, leap out of Doyle’s hand, and attack him.
He took a step backwards. “Jesus.” He gasped and started shaking.
“What is it?” I placed a hand on his arm. He’d frightened me. We’d seen countless mutilated bodies and body parts, but he’d never reacted this way before.
“I know her.” He spoke so quietly his words were nearly carried away in the wind.
“Who is she?”
“It’s...it’s Helen Brodie.”
“One of the missing people,” Doyle said it as a statement of fact.
I could hardly breathe. We weren’t safe after all. The island wasn’t free of the dead bastards as Murdoch led everyone to believe. How could they have gotten here? Had they swum? According to Kenny, that wasn't possible. And where were they hiding?
We needed to find out how bad our situation was. “Are there are any more body parts where you found these?”
“I don’t think so.” Doyle dropped the head next to the bones.
Scott bent down to pick up what was left of Helen Brodie. He did it so gently he might have been cradling a baby. “Let’s show her some respect. Give her a proper burial.”
I knew I’ll dream of Helen Brodie that night; see her locks of red hair trailing in the wind as she’s running for her life. I’d call out to her, and she’d turn to look at me, and instead of a mouth there’d be this black hole that she’d suck me into.
We buried Helen Brodie by one of the standing stones. Once we were done spading dirt over her, Doyle posed a question. “If Murdoch searched the island, how did he manage to miss these remains? The trees acted as a barrier so they weren’t covered up by the snow.”
His question hung in the air, and Mustafa was the first to come up with an answer. “He could just have missed them. From what you’ve told us about him, he’s not exactly reliable. Or he might have wimped out and not searched here because it’s so close to town.”
“No,” Kenny said, “that can’t be it.”
Doyle looked puzzled. “Why else would he miss these bones? He couldn't have looked. And it’s not like the island’s so big that he would accidently skip this area.”
Kenny blinked then said, “Maybe he didn’t want anybody to know there are zombies here.”
That didn’t make any sense. “Why would he do that?” I said. “He’d want this island to be safe, surely? Suggesting he wouldn’t is rubbish.”
“Occam’s razor,” Scott said.
What?
We all stared at him, wondering what he was going on about, so he explained. “It means in layman’s terms that the most obvious answer is the answer. Murdoch knows about these bones. It might not make sense, but it’s the most obvious answer.”
Mustafa had a gormless expression on his face. “But, why would he do that?”
None of us has an answer, but we all agree on one thing, we urgently needed to have a word with Murdoch.
29 BRING ME THE HEAD OF HELEN BRODIE
We all traipsed into Murdoch’s butcher shop, Scott leading the way with me next to him and Doyle, Kenny, and Mustafa bringing up the rear. Doyle had the gun in his pocket in case things got nasty. We were on high alert.
Initially Scott had wanted to go alone because Murdoch knew him, but we thought it was wiser if we all went.
“And we can have a better look around if it’s all five of us,” Doyle had explained.
“The creepy guy might be the zombie who ate Helen Brodie,” Kenny had added with a glint in his eyes.
I hoped he was kidding, but since his family had disappeared, Murdoch had been staying in his shop. Maybe he was mourning their loss or hiding something.
When we strolled in, Murdoch was skinning a rabbit with a knife on a scarred chopping board. The sight of the poor animal's dead eyes reminded me of zombie eyes, and I had to look away. The stench of fresh blood and guts didn’t help either and made me want to gag.
Murdoch looked up. “What can I do for you all?” Then he carried on with his knife, cutting through fur and skin.
You form impressions of people in your mind before you met them and I’d imagined that being a butcher Murdoch would be a strong, sturdy farmer type. The reality couldn’t have been more different. The butcher was a short, plump man with mousy brown hair and toad eyes that appeared to retreat back into his eye sockets as he talked, giving him the impression of being sleekit. It didn’t help that his fat lips resembled slugs and that they glistened because he kept on licking them, in a gesture that made me want to douse myself in disinfectant.
“Do you remember me?” Scott asked him.
“
Aye, you’re Willie Crawford’s boy.” He sliced the rabbit’s belly open and pulled the insides out. The action reminded me of what the dead bastards did to people’s innards. Guts gushed out on the chopping board. “I never forget a face, son. You were always coming into our shop for a sausage roll.” His voice is pure baritone in contrast to his short, doughy frame, a body probably achieved by munching his way through too much of his own produce.
“Sorry to hear about your missing family,” said Scott. “Was there any sign of them when you looked round the island?”
Still holding the knife, Murdoch stared off into the distance. “I wish I knew what'd happened to them.” When he met Scott’s gaze, his eyes were glassy. “They could have left on the ferry to go shopping for all I know. I didn’t know what they’d planned to do that day when I left the house. Isobel was going on and on about the kids going to the dentist, and I just figured she took them to Largs for their appointments. I'd no way of knowing they’d never come back.”
We nodded in sympathy. How were any of us to know that the last words we spoke to someone would be the last words?
He wrapped a meaty paw around the rabbit’s innards, and with a jerk, deftly disembowelled the floppy creature. The smell was nauseating. I couldn’t wait to get out of here.
Scott introduced us, but although Murdoch nodded at each of us, he didn’t make eye contact.
Scott started with, “We found Helen Brodie’s remains.”
The butcher’s jaw clenched. “This isn’t the time for you to be pulling my leg, son.” He pulled the skin off the rabbit, like you would turn a sock inside out.
“I assure you, Mr. Murdoch, we wouldn’t do that.”
“Aye, I guess you wouldn’t. You’ve always been a good lad.”
Doyle stepped in. “We want to know why you didn’t find her bones when you searched the island. They were right there, in plain site on the land with the standing stones. How do you suppose you missed them?”
The Restless Dead: A Zombie Novel Page 16