Undead (ARC)

by McKay, Kirsty

  Cam retches, and there’s a slosh on the polished floor.

  “There’s no time, we have to move!” I run toward her, the bitter smell

  of puke hitting me in the back of the throat.

  “Bobby” — Lily’s voice is almost begging — “I don’t know if we can keep

  going. Maybe we should just give them what they want. Give them the

  key to the tower.”

  “We’re not giving them anything,” I say.

  As I reach for her, I turn and see Shaq standing at the top of the staircase. He’s heard everything. He stares down at us. I stare back, frozen, a look of desperate pleading on my face.

  “Please,” I barely whisper.

  He thinks about it.

  Then he shouts, “They’re here! They’re here!”

  Bastard. You didn’t want to, but you screamed for the Nazis anyway because you need them to like you.

  And like the Von Trapp Family Singers, we’re running — minus the

  harmonizing. Me with the sick Cam in my arms, and Lily all long legs

  and flailing arms behind me. We reach the kitchen and hear the shouting and the kicking from the mudroom. Smitty, Alice, and Pete are

  flinging themselves at the back door, which was so very unlocked when

  I came in through it, but which is now totally and utterly locked and

  impenetrable.

  “There must be another way out!” Pete cries.

  “There!” Lily points to the kitchen window, which is still open a crack.

  “They’re behind us . . .” I dump Cam on the floor beside Lily and

  rush to the door we just came through, grabbing a wooden chair as I go.

  I thrust it under the handle. Oh, I’m a quick learner . . . Smitty catches on and together we barricade all three doors.

  “This won’t open any farther!” Lily is up on a chair and trying to force

  the window. Smitty leaps up beside her and pushes with all his might.

  “Break it!” shouts Alice, but it’s hopeless. The small-paned, stone—

  framed, lead-glassed windows that seemed such a plus-point for their

  anti-zombie appeal are working against us, big-time. Unless Pete can

  fashion a demolition ball out of some duct tape and silverware, those

  windows are staying intact.

  We are utterly trapped.

  There’s a scratching at one of the doors. Alice screams. The handle

  turns frantically, then there’s thumping. Alice screams again, and I want

  to thump her. Way to tell them we’re still in here.

  Then the thumping stops.

  “Guys . . .” A low, calm voice. “We’re not going to hurt you.” It’s Grace.

  “Like hell you’re not!” Alice shouts back. “You’re going to turn us into

  zombies!”

  I grab her arm. “Shut up!” I yelp.

  “OK,” Grace continues from behind the door. “So you heard some

  stuff. But there’re a lot of things you don’t know, and the safest thing for you to do is trust us and let us in.”

  “Did you really create the zombies?” Pete walks toward the door. He’s

  not panicked, just interested, with maybe a touch of I-Was-Right-All—

  Along. “Was it a virus mutation? Biological warfare? Is this some kind of

  government experiment? Who are you working for?”

  We all freeze.

  From the other side of the door, Grace makes a noise, a kind of half

  sigh, half chuckle. Like she’s very, very tired.

  “Pete, yes?” she says. “You’re the brains, aren’t you?” Her voice is soft, seductive even. “Open this door and I’ll tell you everything, I promise.

  You’ll be fascinated, believe me.”

  Pete walks toward the door, and I’m almost about to tackle him to the

  ground in case he goes for the chair, but then he speaks.

  “That’s very flattering, Grace,” he says. “I’m sure I would be fascinated. All we ever wanted was a few answers.”

  “Screw answers, I want to go home!” wails Alice.

  “I know, Alice, I know,” says Grace. “We all do. We want you to be

  safe, we want everyone to be safe, that was the intention all along.” Her

  voice is creamy, and I imagine her, like a Hollywood goddess, leaning

  against the door languorously — holding an ax behind her back. She

  speaks again.

  “You should know . . . What’s happening here . . . It’s not the

  first time.”

  OK, she’s got our attention. And she knows it.

  “People have been turning, all over the world — isolated cases. It’s

  been going on for a while.”

  “Really?” says Smitty. “Must have missed that on the news.”

  “It’s true.” Grace sounds convincing enough. “Naturally, it’s been kept

  quiet by the authorities. Imagine the panic if this got out.”

  “Imagine.” Smitty’s voice is thick with sarcasm.

  “What’s causing it?” says Pete.

  Grace clears her throat. “Nobody knows. Our group was tasked to

  find a solution, an antidote. But then the company that was funding us

  tricked us. All they really wanted was to discover whatever it was that

  was turning people so they could use it as a weapon — something they

  could sell. They fooled us. You know how adults can be.”

  I roll my eyes. For a smart person, Grace is incredibly stupid if she

  thinks this Us ’n’ Them crap is going to work.

  “We created an antidote,” she continues. “And it’s in the tower. We just

  need to get it, and we can make everything right.” She pauses, and I can

  almost hear her licking her lips, waiting to see if we’ll bite. “Do you want to be the heroes? Help put everything right?”

  “Yes,” says Lily weakly.

  “Wait!” Smitty shouts. “You have an antidote? Then why the hell

  aren’t you out there giving it to people, you cowards?”

  “Smitty,” Grace’s voice purrs, “it’s not the final product, just a

  prototype we’re developing. We believe it works, but we can’t be sure. We

  know it doesn’t work for people who have already turned, only on those

  who are in the very early stages of infection.”

  “So what was the Veggie Juice all about?” Smitty retorts. “Getting

  some test subjects to lock up in your tower?”

  “No! That wasn’t our idea!” For a moment, I almost think Grace has

  lost it. But she quickly gets it back. “That was the company, not us. They started the outbreak as a test, to see how it would spread and how people would react — they even tried to infect us the same way, because we’re

  witnesses. And now we need to get the antidote before they come and

  take it away for good.”

  “And exactly what will you do with the antidote once you have it?”

  Pete asks. It’s a good question.

  I can hear the grim determination in Grace’s voice. “There are people

  out there who will know what to do with it. For the right reasons.”

  “And for the right price?” Pete laughs.

  “It has never been about the money!” says Grace.

  “Bollocks!” yells Smitty.

  “But if you’re interested . . . ,” she intones, “some of that money could

  be yours. All you have to do is give us the tower key.”

  “I don’t care about money!” screams Lily suddenly. “All I want is to get

  out of here, and for Cam to get better! We need to get him to a hospital!”

  “He’s poorly?” Grace says. “I’ve trained in children’s medicine, Lily. I

  can help him. Open up, give us the k
ey to the tower, and I’ll make him all better.” Grace can’t prevent her voice from trembling. She’s not that good an actress. I was more convincing in the school Nativity play as a sheep.

  “Sadly, we don’t have the key,” said Pete. “If we did, we’d give it

  to you.”

  “We do have the key.” Lily reaches into her pocket and holds it up.

  “They know we do.”

  “You’ve had it all this time?” Alice shouts. She turns to me, like it’s all my fault. “You knew about this?”

  “Do the right thing, Lily,” urges Grace from behind the door.

  “Okey-dokey.” Smitty walks toward the door. “We’ll just do that, then,

  eh, Grace? And we’ll be the heroes. And you’ll heal Cam. And give us a

  big wad of cash.”

  There’s a scream from the window. It’s Lily. At first I think she’s

  freaked out under the pressure, but then I see there’s a hand reaching

  through the window, a hand grabbing her hair, pulling her. A zom? No,

  Shaq. I see the top of a ladder and his dark head behind the glass. Then,

  in almost the same minute, there’s a crash behind the door to the mudroom, a crash and a shout. Michael has come in the back door.

  The classic diversion technique: Grace kept us talking; the men crept

  up from behind. We should have known better.

  Chaos breaks out. Cam is screaming; Alice, too. I grab Lily’s arm,

  trying to pull her away from Shaq. Smitty flings himself at the door

  with Michael on the other side. Grace keeps talking, low and persuasive,

  dripping poison into Pete’s ears. I can hear the dog barking somewhere,

  then there’s a cracking noise and the door splits in two. The door to the

  mudroom is still in place — barely — but I can see Michael through a gap,

  his face turnip-purple and full of rage, Smitty trying to hold the pieces

  of wood together. As I try to wrestle Lily free of Shaq’s grasp, there’s

  a silver flash and I see the key spring from her hand and fall to the

  kitchen floor.

  Before I can react, Alice has fallen upon the key. She runs to the

  tower door and thrusts it into the lock. Both Smitty, Pete, and I yell,

  “Noooooo!” and I catapult myself across the room, abandoning Lily,

  trying to reach Alice. She turns the key and opens the door. And then

  she’s inside, and gone, with Pete hot on her heels.

  Maybe they’re right. Maybe this is our only way? As I make the decision, the door finally gives way and Michael comes barrelling in headfirst, slamming into Smitty, who rolls onto the floor and ends up at my feet.

  He doesn’t stop Michael, who smacks into the kitchen table, whacking

  his head on the corner. He falls to the floor, dazed, barely moving.

  Lily drops to the ground beside Cam. A second later Shaq appears

  and lets Grace in. She stands there, cow prod in hand. She sees the open

  tower door and her eyes flash.

  Smitty drags himself to his feet and gently pulls me inside the tower.

  He puts his hand on the door.

  “Good,” Grace says. “You opened the door. We won’t hurt you.”

  Smitty ignores her. “Lily, get up. Get Cam, come here.” His hand is

  firm on the door, ready to pull it shut.

  On the floor by the table, Michael groans.

  “Quickly, Lily,” Smitty says, pulling the door, narrowing the gap.

  Lily crawls to Cam, who is silent and curled into a tight ball, his face

  in his little hands. “He’s dead.”

  All eyes flick down to Cam.

  “He’s not dead,” says Smitty. “He’s ill. Pick him up, come over here.”

  Everyone holds their breath. On the floor, Cam stirs. Head down,

  his stubby legs kick out, trying to find some hold on the floor. Lily cries with relief.

  “See? He’s fine,” Smitty says. “Carry him.”

  A dark shape leaps out from the mudroom door. The dog, barking and

  snarling, teeth bared and pink gums moist. He goes for Cam, and Lily

  falls back, startled. The dog stops just short, but his agitation increases and he bounces and smacks his jaws at Cam.

  It is Cam and Cam alone who is pissing him off.

  “Oh my god,” Shaq mutters. “The kid. The kid is infected.”

  “No!” Lily shouts.

  Cam sits up and turns to face her. I see his face and feel a stabbing

  pain in my stomach. His chubby smile is black and twisted, his mouth

  oozing.

  The dog keeps barking.

  “Lily,” Smitty says carefully. “Leave him.”

  “No!” she screams.

  There’s a scuffle by the table as Michael wakes up suddenly, like

  someone’s thrown a bucket of water over him.

  “The kid is infected!” Shaq shouts again, and Michael scuttles away

  into Grace.

  Them on one side, Smitty and me on the other, Lily and Cam and the

  dog in the middle.

  Cam makes an unearthly moan, like a baby buried alive, trying to cry

  the dirt out of its lungs. He holds out his arms to his sister, black blood running freely from his mouth.

  “Cam . . . ,” Lily whimpers.

  “Lily!” Smitty yells again.

  But she holds her arms out to Cam.

  Grace screams, “No!”

  And as brother and sister embrace, Cam plants his milk teeth into

  Lily’s trembling shoulder.

  Michael and Grace leap forward. Smitty pulls me away from the door

  and slams it shut, locking us into the tower.

  2 4

  There is a thump ing on the door.

  So muffled, it’s like we’re underwater. Maybe it’s because of the thick

  door, but I feel like I’m floating above myself, spiraling somewhere on

  the ceiling — or above the ceiling, in the clouds . . .

  “Bob. Bob.”

  Smitty’s shaking me lightly — or maybe it’s really hard. Again, can’t be

  sure. And then he’s taking me by the hand and pulling me up the stairs.

  Winding stairs that are brightly lit, white, clean. This is not a castle; it’s like suddenly we’re in a spaceship. The stairs seem to go on forever. With every step I return to my body.

  Here comes the dizzy. I sink onto the gleaming stairs.

  “We left her.”

  Smitty crouches by my side. “You saw her get bitten.”

  I nod.

  “Cam was infected.” Smitty sounds like he’s trying to convince himself, but he doesn’t need to convince me. There was no doubt about it. No

  tiny shred of doubt.

  “They’re not dead yet.” I rub my face with my hands and spring to my

  feet, head zinging with the rush of blood. “Grace said there’s an antidote up there. We should let her in — she might still be able to help Cam and Lily . . .”

  “No!” Smitty shakes his head. “She said it didn’t work after someone

  has turned.”

  “Lily, then!”

  “We have no idea if Grace was even telling the truth.” He’s firm.

  “If there is an antidote, I’ll go get it myself.” I push past him and

  stomp up the stairs. “I’m not leaving them without trying, even if Cam

  can’t be saved.”

  “We should have . . .” Smitty’s voice sounds small and pained. “I should have taken better care of him. Or at least taken notice. Poor little guy.”

  I stop short and cast him a look over my shoulder in surprise. The

  Smitty I know doesn’t do Individual Guilt Trip. I don’t know whether to

  be touched or terrified.

  “You can’t beat yourself u
p.” I risk putting my hand lightly on his arm.

  Our eyes meet for a second. “He must have been infected before we even

  met him.”

  “Lily.” Smitty takes a breath, and briefly touches my hand. “There’s

  still a chance the antidote will work on her. It takes different amounts of time for people to turn — Mr. T was almost instantaneous, the drones in the café a few minutes — but Cam took days.”

  “Then we have to try!” I turn away and am hauling myself up the

  stairs again before I can think better of it.

  I reach the top of the stairs and run through an arched doorway.

  The room in front of me is no TARDIS out of Dr. Who, but it’s a whole lot bigger than I would have guessed. It’s circular with a vaulted ceiling and huge, elevated windows. Everything is white and shiny and new looking, with desks and bookshelves hugging the walls below the

  windows, and a long slablike table in the center of the room. I think

  we’ve found Frankenstein Central.

  “You’re OK?” Pete’s bent over a desk in the corner, manically fiddling

  with something. “Did you shut the door behind you?”

  “No, we left it wide open, you dweeb,” mutters Smitty. “Thanks for

  caring.”

  “Can they get in? What are we going to do?” Alice shouts from

  above. She’s perching on a broad window ledge that runs almost the full

  circumference of the room and she’s holding a phone up to the window,

  checking for reception. Heaven only knows which orifice she’s been

  keeping that phone in for the last few hours . . .

  I snatch at a cabinet door, then a drawer, flinging the contents on to

  the floor. “Where would they keep the antidote?” I rake through some

  shelves. And then I see it: a fridge. That’s exactly where I’d be hiding

  my magic potions. I heave the door open to find shelves full of test tubes and syringes.

  “What for?” says Alice.

  “Too late,” says Smitty, and his words hang in the air like a bad smell.

  He points to a cabinet by the doorway. Inside it are six small TV

  screens. Very much like the office at the Cheery Chomper. Exactly like

  the office at the Cheery Chomper. I shut the fridge and move toward the

  screens. There are different views of the courtyard, back and front doors, the main gate. And the kitchen.

  Lily is standing facing the camera, swaying softly, as if listening to