Undead (ARC)

by McKay, Kirsty

  is in four long vertical sections that fold in on themselves like a paper

  fan when they open. An idea comes to me. “If we had something to put

  across, like a piece of wood —”

  “Got it.” Smitty calls down the aisle. “How we doing, Malice?”

  Alice’s blond head ducks down into the bus momentarily. “Do not call

  me that, you total freak.”

  “Is Mr. T still heading for us?” I say.

  Alice sticks her head out again. “Yes!” she shouts down to us. “Slowly.

  He’s sort of staggering around the parked cars, but he’s coming this way.

  Oh my god, he’s horrible. He’s completely dribbling.”

  “Lovely-jubbly.” Smitty grins at me. “I’m going to get my snowboard.

  Shut the door behind me, won’t you?”

  “What?” My jaw drops. “Outside?”

  Smitty reaches under my chin and closes my mouth, which makes a

  kind of clop. Before I have time to recover, he pushes the door lever and jumps into the snow.

  “My board’s stowed under the bus. Shut the door!” He disappears

  around the side of the coach, and I pull on the door lever and race back

  up to Alice, my face aflame.

  “Where is Mr. Taylor now?”

  “Past the cars,” says Alice from the hatch. “Have you locked the doors?”

  “Smitty’s gone out to fetch his snowboard so we can barricade them.”

  Alice drops down from the hatch. “Tell me I didn’t hear you right.”

  “Don’t worry.” I smile halfheartedly. “He’ll only be a second. You said

  Mr. Taylor was moving really slowly —”

  “Oh my god oh my god oh my god . . .” Alice runs blindly to the front

  of the coach. “Smitty’s outside? We can’t lock this thing?” A loud clank comes from underneath the bus and she screams. “He’s going to get in!

  He’s going to kill us!”

  “That’s just Smitty.” I pull myself up to the hatch to make sure. Mr.

  Taylor is still on course. He’s not fast, but fast enough to make it to the bus if Smitty lingers. “Open the door and help him!”

  Alice looks up at me. “Are you totally mental? If you think I’m opening

  that door, you are living on Planet Crazy.”

  “Yeah?” I jump down and push past her. “Is that the planet where

  everyone randomly drops down dead and teachers go all monstery?

  Because I think we’re already living there.” I’m at the door lever before

  she can answer back, and I thump it. It doesn’t move. I try again. No

  damn diff. There’s a bashing noise at the door. Alice screams again. It’s

  Smitty, waving desperately from the other side of the glass.

  “I can’t get it open!” I shout at him, trying the lever again. It refuses

  to move. I look at Alice. “Help me!”

  “No way!” Alice backs down the bus aisle.

  Smitty is kicking the door now; then I see him bend. He’s trying to

  push the Open Sesame button on his side of the glass. My stomach flips

  as a dark shape looms into view behind him. Mr. Taylor has arrived. I lift my snow-booted foot and with an almighty force, kick the frickin’ lever like it’s responsible for every goddamn crappy thing that’s ever happened

  to me. The doors open and Smitty falls inside, snowboard first.

  “Shut it!” he cries, but my attention is not on him. Mr. Taylor is filling the space behind him, roaring, fingers clawing toward Smitty, his bloody eyes straining from their sockets. I pull the lever back with all my might, but it’s bent. I must have broken it.

  “I can’t move it!”

  Smitty turns and whacks Mr. Taylor over the head with his board.

  Frankenteacher’s monster stumbles back from the door momentarily.

  I yank the lever again. Still stuck. With a deathly moan, Mr. T shakes

  himself — blood and saliva flying from his mouth like water from the

  fur of a wet dog — and attacks a second time. Blocking his way with

  the snowboard, Smitty tries to reach across and pull the doors shut, but

  it’s no good. I abandon the lever and, against every instinct in my body,

  hurl myself down the steps and tug at the doors. Smitty is holding Mr.

  Taylor at bay, but the teacher is a breath away — and I smell it, like rancid, rotting fish-sick. Suddenly there is a rush of wind above. Alice appears over the front seat barrier rail like some kind of avenging angel, whirls

  the binoculars around her head on their strap, and thwacks Mr. Taylor

  full-on and fabulous in the face.

  “That’s for the double detention, you moron!”

  He is still and perfectly upright for a second, then he pirouettes away

  from us, an arm and a leg making a graceful arc to the side, and falls

  softly into the snow and out of sight. The doors, finally functioning, slide deliberately into place. Smitty slots the board across them and collapses, panting.

  “Woo-hoo!” Alice punches the air with her manicured hand.

  The bus starts up with a jolt.

  The driver, awake now and rolling in his seat, reaches for the hand

  brake with his bandaged hand, and revs the engine violently.

  “Stay behind the line, kids!” he gurgles.

  I cling on to the rail and the bus lurches backward into the Mini with

  a thud. The driver cranks the gear stick and we leap forward. There is a

  crunch, the bus stalls, and the driver passes out again and slithers out

  of his seat.

  I realize I’m huddled on the floor, my arms still clinging to the

  rail above. Like a nervous crab, I tentatively crawl sideways out of my

  space and crouch by the driver. He’s still breathing.

  “Everyone all right?” I call out.

  “Been better.” Smitty is curled below me in the stairwell, rubbing

  his head.

  “Where did Mr. Taylor go?” I peek through the windshield. Carefully.

  This is when they come back. In the movies, this is when they jump out

  at you and smash through the window. It always happens. If you look

  though a keyhole, you get your eye poked out; if you look in a mirror, the killer’s behind you. It’s like the law or something.

  “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 groan. “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,

&nbs
p; 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 guest room. 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 demon—

  strates. “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 just 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 broke it — you 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 noth-

  ing?” 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. 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 would 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 really, really 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 curl—

  ing 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!”