The Restless Dead: A Zombie Novel (20 page)

35 THE AWAKENING

I’d closed my eyes, just for a moment when Kenny’s shouts dragged me back to full consciousness, catapulting me into a real-life nightmare. “Fuck, fuck. What the fuck is that?”

The zombie woman on the bed is thrashing around. Her stomach is ripped open, exposing a yellow oozing mess that smells so foul I have to bite back the vomit. A grotesque baby thing with a huge head has chewed its way out of the womb. My throat tightens as I stare at it. Black orbs for eyes scan the area. The body is out, up to its armpits in gore, clawing at its mother’s stomach with fingernails drenched in so much blood it can’t get a solid enough grip to pull itself out. Stringing tissue dangles from its pointy teeth.

I’m too shocked to move, despite Kenny yelling, “Get out!”

He jumps out of his chair, but stumbles over the rug covering his legs and falls on the bed. The zombified baby’s sharp teeth latch onto his arm as he tries to break his fall, and although I throw myself on him to try and pull him out of danger, I know it’s futile. There’s blood everywhere and a lot of it's Kenny’s.

Scott and Mustafa appear at the door. “What the hell is going on in here?” yells Scott.

“What the fuck is that?” shouts Mustafa.

“The baby,” I say.

The zombie baby’s jaws are clamped around Kenny’s arm as he lurches backwards, yanking its body from the zombie mother’s torn and chewed abdomen. He’s screaming, “Get it off me. Get it off me.”

The zombie mother is rattling her chains in a rage.

I finally manage to find my feet and stumble towards the door.

Kenny shakes the baby loose. It hits the floor with a splat and unbelievably springs to its hands and knees and crawls towards my feet. I drop kick it in the jaw, and it tumbles into the corner, the half eaten umbilical cord whipping about like a worm. 

Mustafa raises the gun he got from Doyle. “That’s no fucking baby.”

Spitting, the baby charges Mustafa. He fires. The bullet strikes the thing’s head. It snaps back, and something green, slimy, and vile splatters the wall. After emitting a final Gremlin-style high-pitched squeal, the body curls up in a foetal position and stops moving.

The mother’s still thrashing about, her eyes gazing up as though she can't understand the death of her child or why she’s been ripped open. Mustafa puts her out of her misery with a bullet to her brain.

I’m trembling so bad I can’t even thank him.

“Muzz,” Kenny says, his voice weak and shaky. “Have you got any bullets left?”

We all turn to look at Kenny who’s slumped in his chair, a towel wrapped around his injured arm. His face is milky pale and he’s shivering. His glasses are lopsided. He makes no attempt to fix them.

I run over to him and hug him as he sobs. I reel off lie after lie as I stroke his hair: “It’ll be okay. It’s just a scratch. You’re going to be all right.”

But dread seeps into my pores, poisoning all hope.

We all know what a bite means.

Mustafa’s eyes dart between Kenny and the monsters’ bodies. “There must be something we can do.”

Scott says, “We could cut off his arm. Maybe that’ll stop the infection. Stop him from changing.”

Mustafa’s eyes grow wide. “I’ll get a chainsaw.”

I want to agree with him, to believe there’s a way of saving Kenny, but we all know that once you’re bitten, that’s it.

“Wait.” Kenny breaks free of my embrace. “You know the score, Muzz. There’s nothing that can be done. There’s only one thing you can do for me now. End it before I turn into one of them like Merle.”

Mustafa looks down at his feet and closes his eyes. He knows what’s coming. What needs to be done. We can’t delay it much longer.

Mustafa's eyes gleam with tears as he looks at Kenny. “Pity, mate. You’d have made a brilliant fucking zombie. Couldn’t see without your specs, but you’d have been bloody amazing. A terminator zombie.”

“Aye, the best,” Kenny says, eyes shiny with tears, magnified by his glasses to look as big as raindrops.

Scott takes the gun from Mustafa’s hand. “I’ll do it.” He steps up to Kenny and points the gun at his head.

Kenny scrunches up his eyes.

Scott’s hand starts shaking. The gun starts shaking. He starts crying, holds his breath then exhales, and lowers the gun to his side. “I can’t do it, pal.”

Mustafa takes the gun back and shakes his head. “He’s my best pal. It should be me to do it anyway. A single tear slides down his cheek.

Kenny squints at him. “Do it, man. Don’t torture me like this.”

Mustafa raises the gun to Kenny’s temple. “Wish it hadn’t come to this, you zombie loving freak.”

He fires.

Kenny’s glasses pirouette across the room. His head is knocked sideways, and his blood hits the wall in a red mist. His body falls off the chair and hits the floor with a thud. Blood pools around his head and his beautiful brains leak out on the carpet.

Hearing wails of grief behind me, I pretend not to see Scott hugging Mustafa, both bawling their eyes out.

I drop to my knees, and hunched over Kenny’s body, the sobs racking my body are so long and loud I know I'll never stop crying.

36 TIME HEALS NO WOUNDS

Nothing prepares you for the silence, for when all the screaming stops, and all forms of human noise cease: TVs blaring, PlayStation sound effects reverberating, mobile phones ringing, music booming, people chattering, cars scudding along. All we’re left with is the sound of our own breathing.

Now that it’s just the three of us, I notice the silence more. There’s no longer any bickering between Mustafa and Doyle and no more moments of blinding insight from Kenny to give the illusion of normality. I miss Kenny and Doyle. When I met them we were strangers, but they became my family. If I hadn’t have had them Scott and I wouldn’t have survived; we’d never have got out of zombie infected Glasgow.

After we bury Kenny we decide to leave the Isle of Cumbrae and travel across the water to the smaller island of Wee Cumbrae. We knew it was uninhabited and it was much easier to defend if we had to. Besides, Scott couldn’t face staying on the island where his family had died. He needed a new start. The three of us all did.

We've been on this new island, for five months now. Initially, we moved into the castle here, a much more lavish one than the one outside Glasgow, because people lived in this castle until very recently, but it was too cold and draughty and there were too many creaky floorboards; we were constantly on edge thinking that someone was coming in uninvited, so we moved into one the cottages. It's cosier there.

We’ve fallen into a routine. By day, we forage for berries and vegetables to supplement the canned foods we found in the castle’s cellar. We don’t think the millionaires who owned the castle will mind. Before the zombie apocalypse, they’d been setting it up as a yoga and meditation retreat. Besides, it wasn’t as if they would ever be coming back.

We collect firewood along the shore and in the woods. Mustafa's good at it and always finds much more than Scott and I do. He’s taken to bragging and calling himself the Firestarter. That always makes me laugh.

We grow potatoes and carrots, which isn’t easy with hungry rabbits mounting dusk raids, but we’ve worked out how to keep them at bay without killing them. Mustafa half-heartedly suggested shooting them, but the thought turned our stomachs. We have a new rule: unless something’s trying to kill us, we leave it alone. There’s been enough killing. We’ve drawn a line in the sand about eating any flesh. We’re now vegetarians.

The prospect of eating anything dead makes me want to vomit, and that’s not the pregnancy hormones talking. Scott feels the same way. Mustafa grudgingly agrees with us, though at times I catch him gazing hungrily at the rabbits. He’s too keen on not being any more of a third wheel than he already is to act on a desire to eat one of them, so he tows the line.

At night, we sit around the fire and talk about things. Important things, like whether we think the makers of Barr's Irn Bru left the recipe behind. We're all jonesing for it, and we talk about how much we miss takeaways and Bunchanan’s toffee.

Winter’s long since departed, and we’re grateful for the warmer weather. At times, the cold chewed away at our bones, and I was terrified the baby would freeze to death in my womb.

After Kenny’s death, I told Scott and Mustafa about the baby. I needed to give us a reason to carry on. Scott raised his fist in victory and said, “in the back of the net,” then he started worrying if I was eating all right and if I was I getting enough vitamins. Of course, he’s terrified of the future. So am I. But there’s also part of me that’s excited: we’re having a baby!

Mustafa’s been swaggering about, boasting about becoming an uncle. I don’t correct him. What are we now if we’re not kin? I once thought he lacked empathy, but now I realise it’s all a front with him, pure bravado. His reaction to Kenny’s death proved that. He talks about Kenny all the time. Maybe it's his way of keeping him alive.

Both my boys (that’s how I refer to them now) built me a cradle, crafted out of driftwood they’d found. It’s a bit of a ramshackle effort, but they both beamed with pleasure when they showed me their handiwork, so I told them it was perfect. It’s not as if I can get a better one out of
Mothercare
.

I’m now heavily pregnant and no longer have to do my guard duties, which I’m delighted about although I worry I’m becoming a burden. My stomach is so big I think I might be having triplets. If I did, how would we cope?

Considering the fact that life isn’t easy, we’re happy here, and every day brings with it some hope, especially when the bump kicks, and Scott and Mustafa put their hands on my stomach to feel the little life inside me that’s desperate to make his or her presence felt.

We haven’t been able to make contact with anyone: there’s a CB radio here and the island has a satellite for internet access. Increasingly I worry about giving birth here without a doctor. There are so many things that could go wrong. The boys keep on reassuring me that they’ll help when the time comes. They’ve been reading a pregnancy book we found in the castle and now they think they’re experts.

There’s not a day that I don’t miss Kenny, and I dream about him a lot. In my dreams, he’s usually playing the bagpipes as he descends in the escalator at the St. Enoch’s centre, down into a snarling mob of man-eating freaks. He stops playing for a moment, turns, and from behind his glasses, he winks at me and flashes a lopsided smile. He carries on playing, and I cry because this time I know that he won’t make it out alive—

I’ll wake up screaming, and Scott holds me until I stop shaking.

Sometimes I see Doyle in my dreams. He’s marching down the beach with his suicide vest. Time stops as he turns round to look at me, grim determination on his face. Then he resumes walking and my shouts for him to stop are carried away in the breeze.

The blinding light of the explosion wakes me up every time.

37 THE SECOND WAVE

Summer brings with it a hazy heat and the Scottish rain, and those conditions bring plagues of midges. These two-winged insects look like little black specks and like the dead bastards they love to feast on humans. They feed on us throughout the day, covering us in loads of angry red lumps that itch like crazy, because like zombies midges don’t stop at one bite: they attack in waves, like blood-sucking torpedoes, leaving no part of exposed skin un-tasted.

One day, Mustafa rolled up a trouser leg and showed us a midge bite on his leg that he couldn’t stop scratching. “Look at this.”

We peered down at it, trumpeting with laughter because after all we’ve faced we can’t believe that he’s bitching about a wee insect bite.

One night, we were roused from our sleep by Mustafa talking a lot of gibberish in his sleep. Scott jumped out of bed and padded the short distance to the next room, fist balled as if he’s going to banjo him one (Scott is mild mannered, until his sleep is interrupted).

I followed him with my solar powered torch from the shopping centre in my hand and watched as Scott tried to shake Mustafa awake. Mustafa was writhing about in his bed, but he despite Scott shaking him like a rag doll, he wouldn’t wake up.

When Scott puts his hand on Mustafa’s head, he drew it back as though he’d been burnt. “He’s roasting.”

Mustafa was still muttering away, not making any sense.

I reach over to feel his head; it’s furnace hot. When I withdrew my hand, I fully expect to see a blister. “Christ, he must be over a hundred degrees. We need to get him some water and Paracetemol to cool him down.”

When Scott comes back with a cloth and some water, I press the wet cloth to Mustafa’s head.

The heat radiates off his face and I wish we had a thermometer, but then I wish we had a many things, such as proper medical supplies and a doctor who makes house calls. But we have neither, so we make do with what we have.

Mustafa starts shaking like he's having a fit.

Panic grips me by the throat, choking the air out of me. “What do you think is wrong with him?” I ask Scott.

“Could be the flu or an infection of some kind.”

Scott’s words sound hollow.

A thought occurs to me that's so terrifying I instinctively shield my stomach with my hands as though that will protect our baby. “What if he’s been bitten?” I say, watching for Scott’s reaction.

His eyes are weary. “Surely, Muzz would remember something like that.”

Scott was being dismissive, but behind the cool façade, I know he’s thinking the same as me. Mustafa had only mentioned midge bites, nothing else, and there were no dead bastards around here, so how could he have been bitten? It wasn’t possible.

Scott tugs at his pal’s shirt. “We need to check him out.”

We didn’t find a human bite, but there were plenty of small insect bites scattered about his arms and neck.

“Jeez, midges must love Mustafa meat.” Scott sounds as relieved as I feel.

We take two-hour shifts, watching over Mustafa throughout the night, talking to him, trying to get him to wake up.

Morning light streamed into the cottage, but Mustafa was still unconscious.

When it was my watch, I’m ashamed to say I fall asleep. When I came to, Mustafa’s bed was empty, but for the crumpled sheets. He must have gone for a walk. This had to be good.

Then panic crawled up my back, and my first instinct is to grab a weapon: I expect Mustafa to be gone and one of those flesh-eating things to be in his place.

I shook Scott awake. “We need to find Mustafa.” In his confused state, he could fall into the water and drown or smash his head against the rocks. “He’s not here.”

Scott squinted at me through half-closed disbelieving eyes. “What do you mean he’s not here?”

“I fell asleep.”

“You were meant to be watching him, Emma.” He kicked the sheet off him.

There’s reproach in his voice that I know I deserve. I’d let him and Mustafa down.

Scott pulled on his jeans and boots. “Okay, let’s go.”

We grabbed the gun and headed off.

Before long, we found Mustafa on the beach, watching the waves crashing in as though it was the most captivating thing he’d ever seen. The expression on his face was one of amazement.

He turned to face us, and I noticed his brown eyes were glowing. He reminded me of a prince in a Bollywood movie, and I went over and hugged him. “You scared the hell out of me, Muzz.” I expected his body to tense and for him to move away from me, but instead he hugged me back.

He felt warm, not hot the way he did before. This was normal warmth, proof that he was healthy and very much alive.

“It’s great isn’t it? We never got this view in Glasgow.” His words brim with happiness.

“Mustafa,” Scott said. “Do you remember what happened last night?

Mustafa seemed genuinely confused by the question and shook his head. “Nah, should I?”

“You had a fever and we couldn’t wake you up.”

His gaze met Scott’s, and it’s as though all of Mustafa’s sadness of the last few months have been carried away in the waves. “I was having a beautiful dream last night. I met Amira Ashwah, and we got married.”

I knew that name. “That’s the Bollywood star, right?”

He nodded. “Gorgeous girl and she was my gorgeous girl last night.”

I rolled my eyes, but I was laughing.

But even as we sit there and watch the waves, I know deep down that something is wrong. Mustafa was at death’s door.

How could he have recovered so fast?