Undead (ARC)

by McKay, Kirsty

  “Sir, we’re just kids!” I shout back. “And our bus driver needs a doctor.

  You’ve got to help us!”

  “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll sod off now!” the man yells,

  and disappears behind the counter.

  “We need a phone, you tosser!” Smitty kicks the door.

  I spot a sign, customer toilets, with an arrow pointing around the

  corner. “Come on,” I call to Smitty. “Maybe there’s a way in at the back.”

  Sure enough, there is.

  “In here.” Smitty runs ahead and pulls me through a door, like it was

  his idea. It’s dark inside. There’s a short corridor with two doors on either side. One is marked toilet, the other private. We try that one.

  It’s darker still inside. I reach for the switch. Yellow light blinks on.

  Thankfully, nobody’s home. It’s a janitor’s closet, with a second door at

  the other end.

  “There’s our way in.” Smitty tries the handle. “Locked. Bet we can

  force it open with something in here.” He starts to search the shelves.

  Now’s my chance at last. I’ve been putting this off for way too long.

  “I’ll check out the bathroom,” I tell Smitty. “Be right back.” I leave the room and quietly open the door marked toilet. Three stalls and a single basin. I duck into the first cubicle, silently lock the door, unzip my jeans, and sit down with a shudder. Life-endangering situations or not, when you gotta go, you gotta go.

  Afterward, everything seems better. I sit for a moment, take a deep

  breath. It will all be OK. We’ll get into the store, we’ll call the cops,

  and get out of this hellhole. I’ll be back home in a few hours, eating my

  mother’s microwaved food and dodging her annoying questions with a

  comforting and familiar irritability. I rub my face, shake my shoulders,

  and allow myself to let out a deep, heartfelt sigh.

  Something in the next stall answers me with a terrible, death—

  rattling moan.

  For a second, I wonder if I imagined the moan. I only do this because I

  want to have imagined it. I want it so badly.

  I saw a bear once. I was peeing then, too. We were hiking in the

  mountains back home in the USA — one of the last trips Dad took me

  on before he got sick. Anyway, I snuck off to take a pee, because I was

  freaked beyond all perspective that my dad might see me squatting. Like

  he’d look. Like he’d care. So anyway, there I was, and as I was pulling up my pants, there was the bear, too. Ten feet away, max. Beautiful, glossy, and fat, looking at me with molasses eyes. I crouched low, back down

  into the grass that was wet with my pee, and looked around for a rock

  or a stick. Any kind of weapon, but there was nothing. When I glanced

  up again, the bear was gone. Later I convinced myself it had never been

  there. I hadn’t seen it. Who sees a bear?

  Likewise, just now, I imagined the moan. Clearly. Or it was a gurgling

  pipe, or Smitty. Yeah, that’s it — Joe Cool has followed me in here and is trying to freak me out.

  The moan comes again.

  It’s not a pipe, it’s not Smitty, and it’s not a damn bear.

  I brace myself against the cubicle walls and slowly climb up onto the

  toilet bowl, ever-so-quietly pulling up my jeans and the zipper.

  Whatever is next door cries out again, the noise wobbling and building to a wail.

  Panic squeezes my throat. I glance at the door. Locked. Phew. Still, there’s a gap below big enough to crawl under. Not to mention that whatever is next door might simply pole-vault the wall or bash the door down.

  Definitely not safe here. Definitely have to move. Before terror freezes

  me to this most inglorious spot.

  It’s panting now: panting, wheezing, and moaning.

  How quick can it run? If it’s a thing like Mr. Taylor was a thing, then

  probably not very quickly. But there I go, gambling again. I shut my eyes

  tight and visualize unlocking the latch, sprinting to the bathroom door,

  flinging it open, then slamming it behind me — maybe finding a way to

  jam it shut — and shouting for Smitty, who has hopefully found a way

  into the store by now.

  Probably, maybe, hopefully. Not good words.

  Silence. I open my eyes and ready myself to move, glancing down at

  my feet bridging the toilet bowl. It’s a tad gross that I haven’t been able to flush, but if it’s yellow, let it mellow . . . and run like hell-o. I have to make a move for the door, and fast.

  As I prepare to leap, there is a new noise.

  A familiar, rasping noise.

  Last time I checked, the Undead have no use for an inhaler.

  Leaning against the wall, I straighten up until I can almost see into

  the next-door cubicle. Think brave. S tanding on my tiptoes, I force myself to peek.

  A boy, crouching on the toilet, his hands covering his face. The white

  wispy hair is unmistakable. It’s Pete Moore. He of the see-through skin

  and bus trip stink bomb. Seems he likes to check out the bathrooms anywhere he can. My heart beats a little slower.

  I whisper, “Hey!”

  “Whaa — !” Pete unfurls like a falling kitten, legs and arms spread,

  butt sinking into the toilet bowl.

  “It’s OK, it’s just me!” I hiss.

  Pete looks up at me with wild eyes.

  “I’m in your class, remember?” I try to sound reassuring. “Are we

  alone in here?”

  “Pah!” Pete scuttles into the corner of his stall. “I don’t know . . . Why are you asking me? Where did you come from anyway?” He’s babbling.

  “Were you in the café?

  Because if you were, then you should stay away from me. Go back

  there and don’t come anywhere near me . . .”

  “You were there? Did you see what happened?”

  “Of course I saw it!” he snaps. “I saw the death come!” Then he starts

  to wail.

  “Shh!” I urge him desperately. “Unlock the door and let me in, OK?”

  “Let me in, she says!” Pete laughs hysterically. “Let me in so I can

  chew on your arm! Would you like fries with that?” He cackles to himself, wicked crazy. “I don’t think so.”

  Trying not to examine the grimy floor, I jump down, drop to all fours,

  and shimmy under the partition. As I arrive on Pete’s side of the wall,

  his manic laughter turns to shrieking, and he kicks out at me. He’s slow

  and I dodge the first strike, but the second lands on the top of my arm,

  deadening it.

  “I’m trying to help you, you nut job!”

  No choice but to crawl on top of his legs to try and subdue him,

  but he’s still screeching, and wriggling like a worm in a puddle.

  “Shut up already! If there are any more of those things around, you’ll

  bring them right to us!”

  By some miracle, Pete falls quiet, his arms across his face. He stares

  at me, head twisted, one pale green eye unblinking and bloodshot.

  He nods.

  “Good.” I allow myself a tiny dot of relief. “That’s good. Just stay calm.

  It’s all gonna be OK.”

  There’s a bang and the door flies open. Pete and I nearly shed

  our skins.

  “Found a boyfriend?”

  Smitty is standing in the doorway, a screwdriver in one hand. “Got

  the shop door open, if you’re interested. Or you can stay here in the john with Albino Boy.”

  I pick myself up, and Pete instantly retracts his legs into himself like

>   a hermit crab.

  “Don’t call him that. He was hiding in here,” I say. “He was in the café

  and knows something, but he’s kind of hyperventilating.”

  “Ha!” Smitty laughs. “What else is new?” He leans down to grab Pete’s

  arm and hoists him up in a single movement. Pete springs back against

  the wall of the bathroom stall, trembling violently. “I’m not the enemy,

  numb-nuts,” Smitty sighs. “Let’s motor.”

  We head out of the bathroom and through the janitor’s closet to the

  door leading into the store, which is now ajar. Pete lingers, wheezing

  again, and muttering.

  “The death came, and it will come again. The death came, and it will

  come again. The death —”

  “Shut him up, will you?” Smitty says to me.

  “Like he does anything I say.”

  “You found him,” he says. “We’re going in.”

  Gripping the screwdriver firmly, Smitty slowly opens the door. The

  fluorescent light of the store spills into the small room. He listens for a moment, gives me a thumbs-up, then slips inside.

  I turn to Pete, who glares at me. I sigh. Fine. Stay here and wait for the death to come and come again.

  I follow Smitty, creeping behind shelves of chips and cookies and

  cigarette lighters, making for where we’d seen the man’s head disappear

  behind the cash register.

  Smitty leaps onto the counter, brandishing the screwdriver.

  “Surprise, surprise!” he screams.

  A battle cry sounds from under the counter and the man springs up

  and swipes at Smitty’s feet with a bat. Who knew they had baseball in

  Scotland? I step back abruptly and the edge of a shelf bites into my back.

  Smitty has dodged the first swipe, but here comes the second. He jumps

  into the air as the man’s bat clatters air fresheners, breath mints, and

  bottles of motor oil onto the ground.

  “Stop it!” I know the words are futile before they’ve even left my

  mouth.

  Smitty hurls himself away from the third swipe of the bat and falls

  against a cabinet of hot pastries. The man hurdles the counter and brings

  the bat down. Glass and doughnuts fly everywhere as Smitty ducks and

  skitters backward on his hands through a slick of motor oil that is fast

  filling the floor. I see my chance. I fling myself at the back of the man’s knees, forcing him off-balance and making him skid in the oil. He falls hard, and there is a smack as his head hits the floor. The bat flies out

  of his hands. I stretch out an arm and make the catch. Dad would have

  been so proud.

  “I said stop!” I hold up the bat, threatening to swing. “Or I’ll flatten

  you both.” Spit flies out of my mouth in a really attractive way.

  From behind the shelves, there is laughter. “She’s not kidding.” Pete

  pokes his head out.

  “Shut it, Albino!” Smitty shouts.

  “You shut it!” The man on the floor jabs a finger toward Smitty. “Crazy

  kid attacking me with a knife. You deserve to be locked up!”

  “It was a screwdriver, sir.” I grit my teeth. “And I’m sure he didn’t

  mean it. He apologizes — don’t you, Smitty?”

  Smitty grimaces.

  “Don’t you?” I grip the bat tighter.

  Smitty rolls his eyes and nods.

  “There you go. We’re all friends.” For the first time, I notice a name

  tag on the man’s shirt, hanging askew, which reads gareth. I turn to the

  man, keeping the bat held high just in case. “Gareth? I’m Bobby, this is

  Smitty, and that’s Pete. We need your help. There are people injured and

  dying; we don’t know what’s going on and we have to call the police.”

  Gareth sits up and rubs his head. “Psycho teenagers are all I need. But

  if you’ve come looking for a phone, you’ve come to the wrong place.” He

  pulls himself up against the counter. “The line’s dead.”

  “He’s lying!” Smitty is up again.

  “Why would I?” Gareth says, not unreasonably. “Think I want to be

  stuck here, either?” He throws the receiver at Smitty. “Check it yourself.

  We’re all shafted.” He walks around the counter and sits down on the

  chair, holding his head in his hands as if checking for cracks.

  I figure I can lower the bat. “Do you know what’s happening to

  everyone?”

  Gareth smiles nastily. “The phones died. My boss went up to the café

  to check what was going on. He comes back and passes out, and I try to

  help him. I think he’s had a heart attack, don’t I? He’s out cold and not

  breathing. Dead as a doornail. Next thing I know, he’s grabbing at me

  and trying to bite.” He gestures to my newly acquired weapon. “He kept

  the bat under the counter for late-night trouble. Never occurred to him

  that he might be the trouble. I smashed him to hell and back.”

  I look closely at the bat for the first time. There’s a red patch and a

  clump of hair stuck to the end. My gut twists.

  “What did you do to him?”

  Gareth taps a cigarette out of a packet. “Hitting him only made him

  angrier. Nothing much I could do . . .” He lights the cigarette, pockets

  the lighter, and exhales deeply. “Until I found this.” He picks up an object from the counter. It’s a metal spike attached to a small block of wood, with small pieces of paper skewered to it. Sales receipts. Gareth chuckles.

  “He never did like balancing the books . . . said they used to do his head in.” A gloop of blood drips from the spike. “Well, they did this time.”

  I gulp. “What happened?”

  Gareth fixes me with his dark stare. “He fell on it.” He thrusts the

  spike. “Up through the eye, popped like a grape.”

  “Cool!” Smitty says.

  “No,” I mutter. “That’s horrible.”

  “Hey, it’s not so bad,” Smitty says. “We just ran over our teacher,

  remember?”

  “Which one?” Pete asks.

  “Mr. Taylor,” I say, numb.

  “Yes!” Pete claps his hands in delight.

  I look at Gareth. “So what did you do next?”

  He shrugs. “Tried to call the police. Line was dead. Went up to the

  café. Everyone was dead. Didn’t hang around to see if they’d come back

  to life. Came back here and locked the body in the storage closet.” He

  flicks a finger at a door in the corner. “Just in case.”

  “Didn’t you even think to look for a phone in the café?” Smitty’s face

  curls with scorn.

  “Yeah, I hung around to go crazy like my boss,” Gareth says.

  “Great idea.”

  “So we just wait here, right?” I say. “This is a gas station; people must

  be in and out all the time.”

  Gareth laughs. “This isn’t your average day, lassie.”

  “He’s right,” Smitty adds. “Have you seen anyone arrive since we got

  here?” He looks up toward the café. “Either it’s the snow, or —”

  “Or whatever’s going on here is going on everywhere.”

  Nobody speaks. I think we’re all ignoring what I just said, but it’s out

  there all the same.

  I chance a smile. “Gareth, I’m thinking you’re about the same age as

  all of us added up. Do you have a car?”

  Gareth shakes his head. “Not today.” His face reddens. “I got a lift.”

  I brighten
. “Fine. So they’ll be back to pick you up at the end of your

  shift, won’t they? We wait.”

  “Or we hot-wire a car,” Smitty says. “Or drive the bus.”

  Gareth looks exasperated. “Have you seen the weather?”

  “Let’s at least try!” Smitty shouts.

  Before Gareth can answer, an engine roars into life outside and a

  large shadow lurches around the trees, heading toward the gas pumps.

  It’s the school bus.

  “Score!” Smitty shouts. “Hello, Mr. Mean Machine All-Terrain Bus

  Driver!”

  We scramble to the window and watch as the bus leaves the road and

  mounts the bank. Narrowly missing the last of the sycamores, it careers

  down toward us.

  “He’s going too fast,” I say. “Why’s he going so fast?”

  As the words come out, I see why.

  Following the bus are people, stumbling through the snow. Arms out,

  heads lolling, feet dragging . . .

  “And to complete the introductions, Gareth,” says Smitty, holding out

  his hand toward the approaching mob, “may I present to you the rest of

  our class from All Soul’s Academy.”

  It’s them all right. Some more animated now than I’ve ever seen

  before.

  The bus is at the entrance to the gas station. Skidding on the icy

  ground, it heads past the pumps and directly toward the store.

  “Slow down!” I scream, like he can hear.

  Smitty grabs me. “He ain’t gonna.”

  As the bus roars toward us with a sickening inevitability, I’m only

  aware of Pete’s white hair ducking behind a shelf and Smitty’s hand in

  the small of my back, pushing me to the ground. There’s an almighty

  crash and everything collapses, burying us in an ocean of chips, cookies,

  and cheap store shelves.

  I close my eyes and wait for the death to come.

  For a lovely moment time is suspended and all is still under the debris.

  Quiet, dark, warm, and strangely comforting, like a cocoon.

  I can smell motor oil, sugary doughnuts, and a sharper, sweeter scent.

  Raspberries? Something tickles my nose . . . I open my eyes and blow a

  straggle of hair out of my face. Not my hair, Smitty’s. His head is buried in the crook of my neck, and he’s out cold. He uses raspberry shampoo? What a girl. I chuckle to myself. Kind of embarrassing how he’s lying across me, though, trapping one of my arms. His weight is heavy across my chest, and one of his arms is almost cradling my head. Lying but not moving. That