Undead (9780545473460)

by McKay, Kirsty

  “Wow!” Smitty says. “Too right. We did Macbeth last year at school, didn’t we, Alice? Great stuff.” He leans in and stage-whispers to Shaq confidentially, “She made a very convincing third witch. And between you and me, Petey here was natural casting for Banquo’s ghost. What a coincidence!” He beams around at us all.

  “Yeah!” Shaq says.

  “Kind of appropriate, Macbeth, isn’t it?” Smitty says. “Spooky. And appropriate.” He paces away from us, turns on his heel, opens his arms wide, and bellows, “‘And graves have yawned, and yielded up their dead!’”

  We all look at him as if he’s lost his marbles.

  Smitty winks at Shaq. “Macbeth was on the money with that one, wasn’t he?”

  Shaq nods. “Precisely! I couldn’t have put it better myself.”

  “‘Cry, “Havoc!” and let slip the dogs of war!’” Smitty the Thespian dances around the cellar. “Isn’t that what he said?”

  Shaq laughs. “That’s right!”

  Smitty laughs, too, dangerously friendly. He flings out a finger and points at Shaq. “My arse!” he spits. “Macbeth said no such thing! You need to sort out your Scottish kings from your Roman emperors!” He leaps onto Shaq and they crash to the ground, Shaq’s stool spinning across the floor and narrowly missing Cam’s box-nest. Cam screams and starts to cry, and Lily swears and scoops him up.

  “Get the key out of his pocket!” Smitty yells from somewhere underneath Shaq.

  “The key?” I say dumbly.

  “To this basement!” Smitty rolls over and pins Shaq’s arms behind him on the floor. “So we can get the hell out of here!”

  Shaq twists on the floor, but Smitty has got him tight. I try to feel inside his pockets without actually feeling inside his pockets.

  “You won’t find it!” Shaq squeals at me. “I haven’t got it on me. They locked me down here with you until I could get the tower key from you!”

  “Right!” Smitty drags him to his feet. “So we’ll lock you up with your ‘Shakespearian mentor’ down there and see if they’ll let you out!” He turns to Pete. “Give me a hand!” The two of them drag Shaq through the wall-curtain.

  Alice shakes her head. “Who knew?”

  “What?”

  She looks at me like I’m the one with the concussion now. “That Smitty could even read, let alone quote Shakespeare.” She scuffs her shoe on the floor. “Too bad, though. Now they’ll never let us out.” She sighs, and follows the boys through the wall-curtain.

  Lily is holding Cam, who is still sobbing. “This is getting to be too much.” She holds a hand to Cam’s forehead. “He’s running a fever, too. We need to give them that tower key so they’ll let us out and help us. And that radio Shaq talked about —”

  “We can’t trust them.” My voice shakes. “Not yet . . . Please, Lily. He just told us a pack of lies. Who knows what they’ll do to us if we give them the key? We have to hang tight for a while. Right now that key is the only power we have.”

  “Who are you really?”

  I can’t help asking. Shaq is sitting on the chair behind the bars, trying not to look at me, Smitty’s puke, or the dead body beside him.

  He doesn’t reply. I don’t really expect him to. I’m not even sure I want him to, if I’m honest. Why would he lie in the first place unless he had something to hide? But it passes the time while Smitty and the others are upstairs negotiating our release.

  “What’s in the tower you need so badly?” I try. “Wouldn’t it be easier if you were just honest with us? What are we going to do, anyway? We’re just dumb kids, after all.”

  He turns on the chair and looks at me.

  “You’re American, aren’t you?”

  I shrug. “No. Yes. Kinda.”

  His face goes dreamy. “I love America. I have family over there, in New Jersey. After all this is over I’m going to emigrate.” He nods and smiles at me, as if he expects me to be thrilled, or applaud, or something. Or maybe start singing “The Star-Spangled Banner.” When I don’t, he continues, “Americans appreciate talent, you see. Not like here. In America, they give you the space and the money to do what you are destined to do. Here, everything is red tape, who your parents are, and where you went to school.” He squints at me. “I bet you miss it, don’t you? The Land of the Free?”

  I look at him. “Don’t try to bond with me.”

  There’s a commotion at the other end of the corridor. I see Smitty coming toward me, but something’s not right. When he emerges fully out of the shadows I can see he’s being held by Michael — just like he’d held Shaq — with his hands behind his back.

  Jeez. Smitty’s stumbling, his eye is swollen, and there’s blood running down his face. And Grace walks alongside, electric cow prod in hand. Behind traipse Pete, Alice, and Lily with a crying Cam in her arms, all like frightened lambs being led to the slaughter.

  “Open that cell now!” shouts Michael.

  I tighten my fist around the little key.

  Grace steps forward. “Come along, now. Let’s sort this out like civilized people.”

  I feel myself go hot. I nod toward Smitty. “You call that being civilized?”

  Grace tries to look a little embarrassed. “He really left Michael no choice. But there’ll be no more fighting” — she looks at Michael, then back at me — “because you’ll let Shaq out, won’t you?”

  “Not unless you let us out, too.” I hold her gaze steadily. She will not faze me with her perfect skin and silky voice. “We’ve done nothing to you. Why do you need to keep us down here anyway?”

  “Unlock the door!” Michael yells, and throws Smitty to the floor, where he lies, moaning.

  “No!” I face up to him, stupidly confident that he wouldn’t dare hit a girl, a teenage girl.

  But I didn’t bargain on Grace. She steps up to Smitty and shocks him with the stick. He cries out and spasms on the floor like a fish out of water. She stares at me accusingly, as if I was the one who hurt him. She taps the bars with her stick.

  “Where’s this key?”

  “It’s in her hand!” Shaq shouts.

  I step back against the wall, my fist clenched behind me, and Michael lunges for me.

  “Stop!” Grace shouts at Michael. “There’s really no need to scare her.” She points the stick at Smitty, moves it slowly down his body until it hovers over his groin. Smitty’s eyes widen.

  “Don’t give it to them, Bob!” he grunts.

  Grace lowers the stick slowly and deliberately.

  “Here!” I hold the key up, just in time to save Smitty, who shuts his eyes and gulps loudly.

  Michael grabs the key and twists it into the lock, and suddenly Shaq is out, and Grace is pushing me into the cell, followed by Pete, Lily, and Cam. Michael drags Smitty in behind us.

  Alice is still outside. Grace beckons her.

  “No!” Alice wails. “I’m not going to be locked up there with that thing!” She backs off, but Michael seizes her and thrusts her toward the cell. At the door she manages to grab the bars and for a moment he can’t move her. Then she suddenly lets go, swings around, and shoots a hand out through the door. She’s in the cell now, and Michael slams the door shut on all of us, but I see what she managed to do. She has the key.

  A second later, Michael realizes it, too. He opens the door and advances toward her, but Alice is too quick. Like a hungry hippo, she holds up the little key and swallows it in one gulp.

  “There!” She opens her mouth and sticks her tongue out. “Now you can’t lock us in!”

  Go Alice.

  Grace groans, turns on her heel, and strides off down the corridor, followed by Shaq.

  “Michael! We don’t have time for this!”

  Michael kicks out at the chair, then at Smitty, and leaves us in the cell, s
lamming the door behind. It clanks in its place and — thankfully — swings open again. The last thing we need is for that latch to suddenly spring shut — the only solution currently being eaten away by Alice’s stomach acid.

  “Wait!” Lily calls to them. “Come back here! We’ve got the key!”

  I cringe and close my eyes. She’s told them.

  But incredibly, they keep on walking. They think she means the cell key.

  “I’ve got the key,” Alice says. “And I’m not giving it up.”

  Lily half groans, half screams when she realizes why they haven’t come back.

  Smitty rolls onto his back, holds up an arm, and checks an imaginary watch.

  “Give it a few hours, Malice,” he splutters through thick and bloodied lips. “They’ll be coming back to do a special toilet trip with you.”

  Alice looks at him and runs out of the cell. We don’t need an invitation to follow her. The basement, with its tarps and boxes and coal chute, seems like five-star luxury compared to the cell.

  Smitty refuses my help, even when I offer it begrudgingly, which is the only way I think he’ll go for it. His face is a mess, but I think his pride is hurt more than anything. The others clear out faster than us; I linger behind, pretending that my leg is giving me trouble.

  “Nice catch, by the way.” I lean against the cell bars and fiddle with my leggings.

  “What?” He struggles to get up. I act like I don’t notice.

  “The Macbeth thing. Pretty cool that you knew those quotes. And he fell for it.”

  He shrugs, which in itself looks painful.

  “No biggie. I knew he was lying.”

  He shuffles out into the corridor and I follow.

  “What are they really from, those lines? You said Roman emperor. Julius Caesar?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Dunno. Probably. I just knew them because they’re in a Death Throes song.”

  Death Throes. In the half-light, I flush red. That badge he had on his jacket, the one we used to fasten the bus driver’s arm bandage in place, way back when. Some British band I’m too uncool to know. But then, as I follow him up the corridor slowly, I see through it. He did know the lines were from Julius Caesar, otherwise how could he know they weren’t in Macbeth? He just doesn’t want to look like a geek in front of me.

  When we reach the basement, Pete is disappearing up the steps, calling out that he’s going to check that the door actually is locked. I sink onto a box. Alice has found another bottle of champagne. Smitty grabs it from her, untwists the wire cage, and pops the cork. He pours the foam over his sore face, then hands it back to Alice. Lily places Cam back into the box that has become his bed. He doesn’t look well at all. Can’t be easy coping with the apocalypse when you’re three.

  Pete descends the steps, his face telling us all we need to know.

  “We’re stuck, aren’t we?” Lily stands up, her face solemn. “I’m going to do something about this. We can’t stay down here forever. The time has come to —”

  I jump to my feet. “OK!” I shout. “We need to know what’s in that tower. If we can hear what they’re talking about, we’ll know why they’re trying so hard to get into the tower, and” — I look at Lily — “if it turns out it will help to get in there, we will help them find the key,” I say carefully.

  Smitty looks up at me from his seat on the lawn mower. “And that works . . . how?”

  “We get out of here!” I’m pacing now.

  “Yay!” Alice says, acting her little socks off. “Oh, pardonnez-moi, I didn’t see the sign for the Emergency Exit. Did I miss something? Or have you got your teleporter with you?”

  I look up the steps. Can’t go through the door. I briefly consider the jail cell corridor that ends all too suddenly and Pete’s ideas of escape tunnels, but dismiss it. This is not Nancy Drew. We won’t push the third brick up from the floor to activate a revolving stone door and reveal a smugglers’ passage. Well, probably not . . .

  And then it comes to me.

  The coal chute. Has to lead somewhere. And if stuff can come down it, stuff can go up it, too. Stuff like me.

  The small wooden door is partially open. Some coal must have tumbled down into the room when Lily and Cam hid in there, and it’s keeping the door from shutting properly. I pull it wide and bend over to get into the bunker, but it’s surprisingly spacious inside and I find I can stand up.

  “Roberta, you’re a genius!” shouts a voice from outside. It’s Smitty, of course.

  Then come the other voices.

  “I’m not crawling up there, it’s filthy.” (Guess who.)

  “Me and Cam will stay here.” (Guess who.)

  “The success of escape will depend on the gradient of the chute, of course.” (And guess who.)

  I climb onto the highest point of the pile of coal and look up into the chute itself. The opening begins at the top of the wall — which is about at my stooped shoulder height — a little high to crawl in easily, but not out of the question if I can find something to stand on. It’s pretty dark, but there’s a white horizontal line in the distance, as if the door at the other end is open a crack.

  “Where’s that flashlight?” I yell as I turn, and nearly jump out of my skin. Smitty is hunched behind me.

  “Way ahead of you.” He clicks the flashlight on and shines it up the chute. The length is about two-and-a-half Smittys, but wow, it’s a tight squeeze. I move closer to get a better view and bang my bad shin on something.

  “Ow. There’s something sticking out of the wall.”

  Smitty shines the light down and we see three rusty rungs sticking out, one above the other. Steps. Someone must have wanted to climb up here before, maybe to clear a blockage. Maybe some poor kitchen boy or chimney sweep. Kid must have been pretty skinny to make it; then again, they were all malnourished and small back in Ye Olden Days.

  I’m not malnourished — well, I could be now, but it’s kind of recent. I am skinny, though. I put my foot on the first rung and prepare to push myself up.

  “Nuh-uh, let me,” Smitty says.

  “You’ll never fit,” I counter.

  “I will, and I’ll pull you up after me.”

  “I don’t need you to pull me.” I glare at him in the darkness, and put my foot on the rung again.

  “Too bad.” He hands me the flashlight and curls a leg around my knee from behind, knocking me off balance. He pushes me lightly, and I fall back all too easily, my butt crunching onto the pile of coal.

  “Hey!” I cry, but he’s up the chute like a ferret up a drainpipe. At least for a few feet. And then he stops. He wriggles, his feet scuffing up coal dust as he tries to push himself farther. He manages to squirm onto his back and tries that way, his legs bending, trying to force himself up the chute. But it’s no good. He’s stuck.

  “Problems?” I say.

  I hear him sigh. “Turns out I’m way too muscular and broad-shouldered for this gig.”

  “I see. That’s a shame.” I’m not giving him an inch. And neither’s the coal chute.

  “In fact, I think I’m going to need some help getting out again.”

  “Wow.” I mull that one over. “Smitty needs help? That must be . . . painful.”

  He’s trying not to get irritated. “Not at all.”

  “What’s going on in there?” Alice juts her head through the doorway. “Oh my god, there are probably humungous spiders in here.” She sneezes. “I think I’m allergic. Hurry up and escape!”

  She disappears, and I can hear her telling Pete and Lily how totally useless we are. I place the flashlight to one side, stand on the bottom rusty rung, and grab Smitty’s ankles. I pull. At first he doesn’t budge, but then I brace my other foot against the wall and heave with all my might. There’s a scraping noise, a yell, and then he
’s free — tumbling through the chute and threatening to fall and squish me. I dodge and he lands like a cat on the coal heap, his leather jacket bunched around his shoulders.

  “Yeah, thanks,” he says. “I think.” He takes off his jacket, picks up the flashlight, and examines it. It’s majorly scratched up.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  “Save it. It’s the distressed look. Malice will probably say I’m bang on trend.”

  “You’re kidding. Distressing was so pre-apocalypse.”

  He smiles, stretches an arm out to don the jacket again, and winces. It’s a tiny intake of breath, before he can stop himself. He puts a hand on the back of his T-shirt and brings it out, the fingers wet and red.

  “What have you done?” I snatch the flashlight and spin him around. He protests, but I lift the back of his T-shirt anyway. Long, vertical, bloody scrapes run from his waist up. “Oh god, Smitty,” I whisper. “Your back’s in ribbons. I’m so sorry.” I search my pockets for something to staunch the blood, but I’m out of options. “I don’t have anything to use on it,” I panic. “You need to get it cleaned up.” I rifle through my pockets a second time, fumbling and dropping the flashlight, which flickers and dies.

  “Stop.” He turns and holds my arms. “I’ll be OK.”

  “But it was my fault!” I say, staring up at his barely lit face. “The scrapes could get infected —”

  Smitty leans in and kisses me.

  On the lips.

  It’s warm and firm and sweet and tastes of blood — and it’s over before I can decide whether to kiss him back or punch his lights out.

  “Get up the frickin’ chute, Roberta.”

  Oh sweet Smart Retort Angel, where are you when I need you? I stare up at Smitty, not able to decide if I’ve just been seduced or insulted. Speechless, and with shaking legs, I grab the flashlight off the floor and switch it on, turn to the wall, and shin up into that chute, half expecting Smitty to slap my behind. He doesn’t, and I’m disgusted with myself that I’m almost a little disappointed. My mind burns.

  He kissed me? On the lips! Like that’s OK. It’s not OK, it’s totally wrong! Was he serious? Is he laughing at me? So why did I like it so much?