The Restless Dead: A Zombie Novel (5 page)

Scott nods and says, “Let’s meet up at Craigen Castle tomorrow. We couldn’t ask for a better hideout.”

“Scott’s right.” Kenny tosses his useless CB aside. “That’s a good place to hold up. It’s on a hill so it’ll be easy to see if any zombies are coming.”

Mustafa retrieves his broken phone. “We’ll bring my family with us.”

“Then it’s settled.”

Scott’s taken his students on field trips to see Craigen Castle, so he knows it well. Its four miles from Glasgow city centre, so we won’t have to drive far (once we get a car, that is). It’s surrounded by a defensive ring ditch, and is set well away from any houses, so there’s less chance of dead bastards happening by. Best of all, there’s only one way in and out, which makes it easier to defend.

Once we’ve all gathered up our things: Scott and I our bat, axe, and backpacks, we trudge outside. After Kenny’s warm flat the winter chill is a shock to the system. 

As I watch Mustafa and Kenny climb in his ancient Ford Cortina, there’s a sinking feeling in my gut because I think that I’ll never see either of them again. I wish I’d said a proper goodbye to Kenny and wished him luck.

As snowflakes gently fall around us, Scott and I hold hands and walk to Dan's house. When we get there, Scott's body tenses.

“It’s gone.” Dan's car is nowhere to be seen. “Either he made a fast getaway or someone stole it.”

“Then we need to appropriate another one,” I say.

Scott flashes me a smile. “Appropriate,” he says. “It sounds better than stealing.”

I regret not sticking with Kenny and Mustafa, but how were we to know Dan’s car would be gone?

As we plod down an un-shovelled pavement, I have to ask Scott, “Can you hotwire a car?” My words come out in puffs of vapour.

Scott makes a face. “Nah, too difficult with modern engines, computers and all, and the steering wheel locks they got nowadays. We need to find a car with the keys stashed somewhere on the outside, like a spare hidden in a wheel well.”

I was dubious about anyone being dumb enough to leave their keys for anyone to find, when further down the street, we struck it lucky. Scott found the keys to a BMW tucked under the bumper. The car hadn’t been there long because there was only a light dusting of snow on it whilst so many other cars we passed were snowed in. Frost on the windows prevented us from seeing inside.

Scott takes his axe out of the loop on his backpack. “Best be careful.”

He’s about to unlock the door when I spot a snowman that some kids have built by the side of the road. “Wait,” I tell him and use my bat as a pointer. “I want to go see it.” I run towards the snowman. When will I ever see anything as innocent as a kid’s snowman again?

“Emma, no, come on.”

There are two pieces of coal for his eyes and a stick for his mouth, and a bright blue scarf has been draped around his neck to keep out the cold. The sight brings a nostalgic smile to my face. As I touch its cold cheek, I remember how excited I was as a wee girl whenever it snowed. Fiona and I always built a snowman using a carrot for his nose and two lumps of coal for his eyes. Then we’d roll about and make snow angels.

Scott saunters up, tries to act all unaffected and nonchalant, but I know he’s happy to see the snowman too, because his eyes get all glassy, and he faces away from me so I can’t see his face.

We’ll have kids of our own one day, build our own snowmen, but now, with this zombie blight on humanity, how can we bring any child into this crazy world?

Life was brutal enough before this. For the first time since we left our home I think about the morning after pill and how I’ve got no choice but to take it. How can I have a baby in this hell we’re living in?

Without warning, a hand shoots out from the snowman’s round belly and tries to grab me. I yelp. Scott shoves me out the way, and I fall to the snow-covered ground. He repeatedly swings the axe, chopping into more and more of the emerging dead bastard. Another hand, a head, a torso, a leg, it’s crawling out of the snowman like the thing is being born.

I can’t take my eyes off the head. There’s a waxy quality to the skin that reminds me of a Madame Tussauds waxwork. This zombie was once a woman. Her gnarly lips are locked in a hideous snarl that exposes rotted upper teeth out the side of her mouth. The axe has already lobbed off one arm, an ear, and split her gut open like a rotten melon.

My hand grips my bat as I scramble to my feet to help Scott dispatch the fiend.

“Stay back,” he shouts and swings the blade in an arc that ends up embedded between her dead eyes.

The zombie bitch collapses at the foot of the snowman as if he’d just given birth to a bloody pulp.

That’s when I say something I know I shouldn’t have said. “What chance do we have of surviving when we can’t even walk past a snowman without it trying to eat us?”

Scott just turns towards the car.

I wish I could take back the question because it sounded so dumb coming out of my mouth.

He remains silent as he unlocks the driver’s door. I wait at the passenger side for him to pop the lock so I can open the door.

“What the fuck?” Scott yells and jumps back.

My heart jumps too. “What is it?”

“Look.” He whispers as though he’s worried somebody will overhear. “There’s someone in there.”

I stoop to rub frost from the window and look in. There’s a man slumped behind the wheel. The side of his head is missing. His mouth hangs open, and some of his teeth are gone. Even in a city without guns, some people have still managed to get their mitts on them. Knowing what was in store for him, he’d exited life on his own terms, which was fair dues to him, but it left us with one glaring problem.

We needed the car; we’d have to move him.

I stand there thinking how things couldn’t possibly get any worse. Then I suck it up, grow a pair of balls, which is more than Mustafa has, and help Scott manhandle the body out of the car.

It’s not easy because the man weighs a ton, and the arms and legs keep flopping about until we drop him next to the snowman.

When we’ve finished our gruesome task, although we’re puffing and panting like Turkish weightlifters, I have to ask, “Shouldn’t we bury the poor guy?”

Scott screws up his face and pitches his axe into the back seat. “We’re in a hurry here, Emma. Besides, he took the coward’s way out and left the rest of us to deal with this shit. Screw him.”

In all the years I’ve been with Scott I’ve never seen him so callous, but he does have a point.

He jumps into the driver’s seat. “Let’s go get Fiona.”

He says it as a rally call.

I get in the passenger seat and put the baseball bat between my knees. “I’m ready.” I close my door, which sounds as solid as a jail cell slamming shut.

He turns the key in the ignition. The car engine roars to life. And we’re off, skidding and fishtailing down the icy road.

7 THE THINGS WE LOST IN THE APOCALYPSE

Fiona lived in a detached villa on the south side of Glasgow in a smart private estate with about twenty houses. Set well back from the road, there was no reason to go there unless you’re a resident or a visitor. That gave me hope that she'd be safe.

The BMW ploughed through the snow with ease, but we kept the windows down to air out the coppery odour of blood that still dripped from the instruments and pools of gunge on the floorboards. Here and there we see packs of zombies ganging together, hunting in packs. There was plenty of food for them now, so they didn’t need to chase us in the car. I was sure that would change sometime soon when the supply of food was exhausted. When that happened, we wouldn’t be safe anywhere on the streets.

When we got to Fiona’s, a few cars were parked in driveways, but there’s nobody about as we get out of the car, our nerves as strung out as new guitar strings as we scanned the area. It didn’t help my rising panic when I spotted big bloodstains on the pavement leading to her house, and had to bite back the image of Fiona being dragged out of her house, terrified, kicking and screaming. Maybe even calling my name. There was no way she’d leave otherwise: she couldn't even open her door for the postman because of her paralysing phobia.

I got out of the car first, bat clutched in my hand and heart pumping away like I'd run a marathon. Scott joined me, armed with the axe. His jaw was clenched tight like he was ready for anything.

So we didn’t have to walk through the blood, maybe even Fiona’s blood (I hated myself for thinking it), we headed for the side door. Before we opened the door, we stopped and listened for any sounds that would alert us to danger - moans, shuffling feet, something heavy being dragged along the floor, or animal noises the undead make as they hunt and feed. I didn’t hear anything, but that didn’t help me to relax.

As quietly as I can, I pull the keys from my pocket. It’s a double lock device, so I insert the first key and turn it until it clicked, followed by the Yale key that I turned until the latch released. I nudged the door open, taking special care not to open it too wide because it creaked. I meant to oil the damn thing; it’s not like Fiona can do it herself.

Silence hung in the air like a shroud. Usually the telly is blaring away because Fiona loves her daytime shows. Jeremy Kyle is her favourite. That day, apart from the birds chirping away behind me, there was barely a sound. That was bad news.

As dread crawled down my back like the hands of a groping pervert on a Glasgow bus, I tried to kid myself that Fiona’s asleep, and that’s why she wasn't in her usual place in the living room. I led Scott through the kitchen, treading lightly on the wooden floor, Louisville slugger reared back, ready to bash anything that jumped out at me.

The air smelled of burnt toast. Breakfast things were abandoned on the table as though she'd been in the middle of eating when she left. I don’t want to think she might have been dragged away. Flies buzzed around a half-drunk mug of milky tea and there was a marmalade jar minus its lid lying open beside a slice of toast that was as hard as a board. Fiona didn’t usually leave a mess like that, not with the OCD that complicated her agoraphobia.

Something was wrong. I felt it in my gut as soon as we got here.

Scott cast a baffled glance in my direction. He wasn't used to Fiona leaving things in disarray. He’s been known to joke about how he ended up with the messy sister.

She wasn't in the living room. Another mug sat on the usually pristine coffee table. Next to it lay a half-eaten packet of chocolate chip cookies surrounded by crumbs.

It’s almost as if someone else had been living there and not my sister.

Then I saw the gash across the plasma TV.

Scott pointed down at the likely culprit, the brass monkey my parents got Fiona for her 21st birthday that was lying on its side.

Scott inspected the damage. “Why would she do that?”

I shook my head because I couldn’t believe that Fiona would smash up her state-of-the-art telly. She’d paid for it with a bonus at work, back when she was brimming with confidence and not hiding away in her house. That television was her lifeline to the outside world, a world she now feared. At one time, she was fearless. Whilst I drifted from job to job, she had a career in advertising that she was great at.

The bathroom door was open; she wasn't in there. “Fiona,” I called out softly. The bedroom door was closed. With Scott following behind me, I nudged it open. “Fiona.”

There was no answer from the shadowy room. The bed lay unmade, the curtains were closed, and my sister was nowhere to be seen.

When she was little, she used to have nightmares and hide under the bed, so I checked there. No Fiona. My heart feels fit to burst.

I slump down on her unmade bed, telling myself that maybe she'd left, although I know there’s not much chance of that. She couldn't summon up the courage to pick up parcels the postman had left right outside her door. All it would take is a few steps outside, but it might as well have been miles for someone with Fiona’s phobias.

My stomach tightens as I accept the truth. She’s gone.

“Where is she?” My voice is a shriek.

Scott, a silhouette in the doorway, didn’t respond. Maybe like me, he was unnerved by the stillness. He doesn’t fully understand Fiona’s strange ways, but he’s always been fond of her. She was so emotionally fragile, every day she teetered on the edge of reality; that’s what comes of living in a self-imposed bubble.

Scott steps to the wardrobe, axe at his side. “Maybe some friends came and got her.” There’s forced hope in his voice. He doesn’t actually believe that. She doesn’t have any friends; they all deserted her when she got ill. I’m all she’s got.

I want to scream at him that my sister’s dead. We got here too late.

He opened the wardrobe.

I heard a tiny gasp.

Scott set down the axe and extended a hand to the closet. Another hand appeared, dainty, almost child-like and reached for his hand. I have my bat raised, but when I realised it was Fiona, I dropped the bat on the floor.

Relief washes over me like a hot shower on a cold day.

“Fiona,” I whispered.

Slowly, she emerged from the wardrobe, so unsteady on her feet that Scott and I had to half carry her. Her chest jerked with sobs, each one a stab of pain to my heart.

How long had she been in there praying that I would come for her but not knowing if I ever would, wondering if she was all alone?

Throwing my arms around her, I squeezed her so tight I’m amazed she doesn’t suffocate. While I hugged her, I was crying and telling her, “I thought I’d lost you.”

She felt as cold as an icebox.

Together, Scott and I eased her onto the bed and wrapped her in a duvet. I’m about to turn on the electric blanket when I realised my oversight: no power. She was shivering, and I’m worried she’s hypothermic. I rubbed her hands to try to get some circulation going, but it wasn't easing her shivers, so I crawled into bed beside her.

“Do you know what’s happened?” I asked her, squeezing her hand. She was yet to say a word.

Her hand was so fragile in mine it could have been a child’s. Had she always been this thin and I hadn’t noticed?

Scott sat next to me. “Ask her what happened to the telly?”

He had to be kidding. “Damn the telly. She’s sick, can’t you see.”

“Emma,” Fiona said. She’s so quiet I had to stop myself from telling her to speak up.

“I’m here, Fiona, I’m here.”

“It was on the TV...” she muttered between sobs, “a man’s arm being ripped off...another man eating...the arm...over and over...it wouldn’t stop.”

“David Cameron,” Scott said. “She’s seen the footage.”

I stroked Fiona’s hair. “So you threw the monkey at the telly to make it stop.”

Fiona's eyes widened. “Every channel...people eating people...they were coming for me...I...I don’t want to be eaten.”

“Don’t worry,” I hugged her. “That won’t happen to you. I’m here now.”

“I was all alone.” She stopped talking to concentrate on her breathing. “I thought you were eaten too...you weren’t coming back for me...”

“It’s okay now.” She’s so damn cold it feels like she’s had ice water pumped into her veins.

Why isn’t she warming up?

I need to soothe Fiona, because if she freaked out, we’ll never get her out of here. Somehow we have to get her to go with us to the castle. I can’t leave without her.

I was holding her against me, trying to get some warmth into her. She was so weak, lethargic, maybe in shock.

“What’s this?” Scott asked. He’s holding an empty vodka bottle. “I found it on the floor over there.”

“Fiona? Have you been drinking?”

She’d drifted off so I shook her.

“And look at this.” Scott shook an empty pill bottle. Painkillers. I know it used to be full because I brought them for her a few days ago.

Gone? Has she taken them all at once?

“Fiona. Wake up.” I can't hide the panic in my voice.

There’s no response. Her eyes were closed, so I shook her a few more times.

“Fiona.” I couldn’t hide the rising fear in my voice. She'd taken an overdose; washed it down with booze. “What have you done, Fiona?” I turned to Scott. “We need to get her to hospital.”

Scott sunk back down on the bed. “It’s not safe.” His eyes are focused on the carpet, as if he’s just pronounced Fiona’s death sentence.

Panic thrashed in my chest like a caged animal. “We’ve got to try or she’ll die.”

Scott’s silent for a moment then he said, “We need to make her sick.”

“We can’t. She’ll choke to death. She’s not even conscious. She needs her stomach pumped. We have to take her to the hospital.”

“Emma, think. It’s probably crawling with zombies. We’d never make it inside and even if we did there’d be nobody to help us. Everybody will be dead. ”

“You don’t know that?” I almost yelled the words at him.

Scott spoke quietly. “Hey, where’s the first place people go when they get sick? The hospital. The patients have probably eaten all the doctors and nurses by now.”

That was Scott, always the analytical one. Even when I didn't want him to be.

Now she wasn't even moving, so I put my ear to her chest. Her breathing is so shallow, so far away. “She’s dying, Scott.”

“Screw this,” he said.

He sprinted into the kitchen. Doors slammed, drawers were pulled open and shut.

All the time Scott’s gone I was talking away to her, but she hadn't responded, not as much as a flicker of an eyelash. Her skin was turning yellow. There was nothing I could do but stroke her hair and talk about our parents. How Mum is so dippy she puts her specs in the freezer and roast beef in her bedside drawer. How Dad thinks he knows everything there is to know about everything. How they drive us nuts, but we love them really. How we should have moved to Spain with them. Maybe then we’d have avoided this plague.

Scott returned holding a basin, a jug of water, a container of salt, and a makeshift funnel. “Move out of the way.”

“No. You’ll kill her.”

“She’s so out of it, she can’t see what we’re going to do.”

“You’re not touching her.”

He dropped the stuff on the floor. “And I’m not going anywhere near the hospital.”

I hold Fiona’s head, rocking her. Tears stung my eyes. I guess witnessing her only safe world on the telly go insane, the blood, guts, and gore, people eating people, it was all too much for her tortured mind to understand. She chose to die alone in a dark wardrobe, the only way she could escape the violence she feared would come to visit her.

I felt her life seep from her body. No breathing. No pulse. “No, Fiona, no.” I cry and cry.

Scott gripped my arm. “You need to let her go, Emma. There’s nothing we can do.”

“No.” I won’t accept it.

Head down, Scott left me in the room with Fiona.

I knew I had to say goodbye, but I don’t want to, but then I realised that I should be thankful she wasn’t eaten by zombies, that we were together at the end so I could say goodbye, and I wondered if the future held the same fate for me. If I’d die in the arms of someone I love, or the other way: in the jaws of a dead bastard.

I refused to leave her. I insisted that we take her with us.