Undead (9780545473460) (19 page)

“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?

The thought makes me scrunch my face as I climb. Disgust fueling my ascent, I pull myself up that tunnel on my elbows, the flashlight in my hand flickering and clunking against stone until I'm nose to door with the exit. I slide my fingers under the gap and they meet cold snow. I slide the door up, wriggle through, and kick my way out into thefrigid air.

I stagger to my feet, lean against the stone wall, and let my red cheeks cool. It's dazzlingly white outside, so incredibly quiet. The snow surprises me, like I'd almost forgotten it was ever there. I'm at the back of the castle, in a courtyard surrounded by stable buildings or outhouses. The tower surges up to my left, and beyond that must be the kitchen and the back door Smitty used on our first night here.
Last night,
I remind myself. Crazy. Feels like I've been here for weeks.

There's a muffled noise from below; Smitty is shouting something.

I shove the flashlight down the back of my leggings, bend down, and slide the door shut quietly.

I'm on my own now. Absolutely on my own.

I could run.

I don't have anything but the clothes on my back, but I could still run. I'd have at least five or six hours before sunset to get somewhere. How far could I get in six hours, on foot, in snow? Ten miles? Twelve? More? There are other villages, there'll be other places with phones, other survivors who aren't so psychotic or irritating, and who won't insist on kissing me.

Now would be the time to make a move. One person does not attract the same kind of Meat-Feast-Seeking Monsters as several loud teenagers burdened with injuries and a three-year-old boy. I can make it on my own.

I breathe.
Assess.

There are tracks in the courtyard snow. Too wide for skis, too narrow for a car. They lead from an archway in the courtyard wall to an outbuilding with a stable door.

I creep up to it, half an eye on the windows behind me in case anyone is watching. They're not, as far as I can tell. I unbolt the top part of the door and peep in. All I need right now is a zombie Black Beauty.

Instead I see two Ski-Doos — one silvery blue, the other red with a small sled attached to the back.

I unbolt the bottom door and slip inside.

Oh gosh.

There are keys in the ignition of both Ski-Doos. Reckless? I guess if zombies attack, it doesn't help to be wondering where you put the keys.

Beside the sled are some boxes, like someone has unloaded them recently. I take a peek inside . . . disinfectant. I frown. Something familiar about this. In fact, the more I think about it, the more sure I am that these are the very same boxes we sat on in the office of the Cheery Chomper. I'm certain that's an Alice-sized butt dent in the top of one. So that's what they were doing while they were away from the castle? Getting disinfectant? Weird.

I fling a leg over Silvery Blue and feel the cool leather of the seat. I have driven one of these things before. Dad had a friend who loaned us a couple on a ski trip last winter in the US. Of course, I wasn't supposed to be driving it, just hanging on behind a parent. But Mum was back in the lodge on her BlackBerry as usual, so Dad and I rode all day, until our cheeks turned purple and my fingers had set in a clawlike grip.

I stroke the chassis of the Ski-Doo, the paintwork so smooth to the touch. I could get a long way on Silvery Blue. To a town, a police station. Given time and gas, maybe even home. I feel a pang as I think of home; the new house in the suburbs that is way too big for Mum and me, with its high ceilings, drafty fireplaces, and bad plumbing. We've lived there barely a month and nothing about it seems like home yet. No history, no familiarity, no birthdays or memories of a shared Christmas. Christmas this year had been at Grandma's with dry turkey and the Queen's speech and Mum crying quietly in her room when she thought I was downstairs.

Still, any version of home would be better than this.

I grip the handlebars of the Ski-Doo and wonder how much is in the tank.

I dither. It's a big move, leaving on my own.

If Dad was here now, he'd know what to do. He'd leap onto Big Red, fire up the engine, lead the way. He'd find our way home, kicking any monsters out of our path. I would be safe if Dad was here; he'd make it right.

I feel the hot tears rolling down my face, and brace myself on the bike as the crying comes so suddenly and overwhelmingly. Memories of his brave smile, his hand growing cold in the hospital bed, and the kind of helplessness and fear I thought I'd never have to go through again so soon. Shuddering, bending over onto my elbows, I let it all out. All the Dad stuff. And the snide looks and snarky words of the ski trip, and Mr. Taylor and his beaten-up monster face, and the driver and his head in the snow, and Smitty and how stupid I feel.

And then it passes, and Dad is gone again, and I realize I'm crying because I know I can't ride Silvery Blue off into the sunset. There are people relying on me, and for some jacked-up reason I can't let them down.

I climb off the Ski-Doo and leave the stable, closing the doors behind me. But not before I've pocketed the keys. Because, as Smitty said, you never know.

* * *

All right, back on task. Listen in on their plans and find out what the hell is going on.

I'm creeping past the tower, hugging the walls. I try to sneak a look in. But it's not going to happen. Where windows once were, there is modern brick.

As I edge around, I spot the place where Pete threw the Veggie Juice. It's just a white lump of snow now; I can't even see the blue plastic bag handles anymore. But I think it's still there, hibernating until the big thaw. Above it is the kitchen window, which is open a crack — Lily must have left it like that to clear the bacon smell, which probably wasn't too bright considering the zombie sitch, but I'm grateful for it now because I can hear Grace's low, calm voice punctuated by Michael's exclamations and Shaq's whining. They're all in the kitchen.

I can't stay out here too long. Even if I can get close enough to hear better, there's no cover. All it will take is for one of them to look out of the window, and I'll be busted. Not to speak of the dog, wherever he's lurking. I need to get inside again and find somewhere to hide.

I scoot past the window to the back door, willing it to be open. Turning the doorknob excruciatingly slowly, I send a silent prayer that no one will be waiting for me on the other side.

My prayers are answered. I'm in the mudroom, which holds nothing except a coatrack, boots, and a collection of walking sticks and umbrellas. The door to the kitchen is to my left, and there is another, narrower door to my right.

I creep up to the kitchen door. Grace is saying something about “adverse situations being expected.” I shake my head and listen closer.
Really, Grace?
Did you really expect the world to be overrun by the Undead when you woke up yesterday morning?
I jump as I hear Michael's baritone. He's standing right next to the door. He seems to have read my mind, too, because he's basically saying out loud what I just said to Grace in my head.

This will never do. Any moment now, they'll hear me standing here, or open the door and see me. What am I supposed to do, crouch beside the coats and make like a hunting jacket? I have to find another way to eavesdrop.

I pad toward the narrow door. It's stiff and gives a squeak as I start to open it. I freeze, hot blood running through my veins, my eyes on the kitchen door. But it doesn't move. They're too wrapped up in their own conversation.

I ease the door wide open. Steep stairs lead up. A servants' staircase. Of course. How else were they going to get breakfast trays full of delights for the masters and mistresses upstairs? It can't have been fun carrying things up and down there all day.

And then it hits me. A way to get into the kitchen that doesn't involve using doors. And it's quite possibly the
dumb
est idea I've had in the last three days.

Or ever.

* * *

I'm upstairs, and I've found it. The little hatch in the wall that corresponds to the one we found in the kitchen last night. The truth is, the servants didn't carry breakfast trays upstairs every morning. They put them on a shelf attached to a pulley and let the wonders of Victorian technology do the work for them.

A dumbwaiter. Basically, a little elevator shaft from the kitchen to upstairs.

A dumbwanker. Basically, a person who chooses to climb down the elevator shaft.

That'll be me, then.

I put my hands on the handle on the bottom of the hatch door and heave, and it slides up reluctantly. Eerie. A musty smell seeps out. Inside is a black space, just big enough for some foolish person to climb in. I lean in and look down, half expecting an ancient Scottish banshee to come rushing up to greet me. There should be a shelf, a little platform that I could ride down to the kitchen. But the shaft is completely empty, which, now that I think about it, is way better. The last thing I want to do is get trapped.

There are wooden bars on the shaft walls, a ready-made ladder. That's my way down. I feel for the flashlight stuffed down the back of my waistband. I'm a genius. Of course, I knew I'd be crawling up one dark tunnel only to be crawling down another. I shine the flashlight down the shaft. The dust clutches at the back of my throat and I step back, trying to stop myself from coughing.

Well? Think you can do this, Roberta?
I hear him in my head.
Can you?

Hell, yeah.

I stow the flashlight in my waistband again and climb in, testing the first wooden bar with one foot. It seems to be holding. I swing my other leg over and sit on the ledge, my hand reaching up for another bar. Good so far. Then before I can really believe it, I'm putting my full weight on the wooden struts and lowering myself down, already feeling for the next rail with my foot, moving hand over hand in a way that totally goes against the panic that's rising in my chest. It's almost like, if I keep moving, I won't fall. And if I don't keep moving, I'll chicken out and —

Shit!

A bar gives way, my right hand snatches air, and I swing around, losing one of my footholds. I shoot out the free hand and foot, bracing myself against the opposite wall like a cat in a chimney.

That was quite noisy.

I look down the shaft, absolutely expecting the hatch below to open. But it doesn't.

A salty bead of sweat runs into my eye. I blink it away and steady my breathing.
Keep going.

I move again, slower this time, testing out the old wood before I trust it with my life. And then, suddenly, I can hear muffled voices. They're still in the kitchen, and they're still talking. Great. Now just don't say anything important before I get there . . .

And then I am there, at the hatch. There are three edges of light where the door doesn't quite meet the wall. I shine the flashlight down. The shaft continues a few feet below the hatch, and my grateful foot touches solid ground. The muted smell of bacon competes with dust and dead mouse. The hatch is at chest level; I bend down and put my ear to the door. If they do open the hatch, I'll look like a head on a platter.

“. . . our primary objective should be to secure it.”

It's Grace. Her voice is low but she's clear enough. What's she talking about? The castle? The dog?

“We have to contact someone!”

I jump. Once again, Beardy-Michael has exercised his remarkable talent for unknowingly standing right beside me. I hold my breath.

He continues. “We've got to be proactive. We can't just sit around on our arses waiting for the world to end!”

Too right, Michael,
I think. But . . . huh?
World
to end? Is this everywhere? How does he know that?

“Useless!” It's Shaq. “It's useless contacting anyone until we've secured the product! Don't you listen, Michael? Don't you see the nonsense in our position? We've got nothing, nothing at the moment! Unless we can get in there” — there is an emphatic
thump
— “we can't possibly hope to have any leverage with these people!”

“Reality check, Shaq.” Michael's voice gets quieter, and I can hear him walking across the kitchen. “Thanks to you, we
can't
get in there.”

They're talking about the tower.
Bingo.

“Hidden in plain sight!” Shaq's voice rises to a whine. “That's what you always said. No fancy keypad on the door to raise suspicion, key hung up in the pantry behind the door! I was only following the rules!”

“We have no guarantees they'll come here anyway.” Grace's cool voice cuts through the hysteria. “They may well have had some counter-measures in place before they let this go nuclear.”

There's silence in the kitchen.

I close my eyes
. Nuclear?
What the hell? The zombies are gonna be dropping bombs? That's it, this is not real. I'm dreaming. The last two days have just been a trauma-induced nightmare. Any minute now, I'll be naked onstage in front of the entire school and the boy I used to like in kindergarten will be trying to make me eat a huge bowl of creamed spinach. It cannot get any worse than this.

I open my eyes. Get a grip.
Nuclear
is an expression; she's not talking about bombs. But Shaq said
product
. What product? Some kind of anti-zombie protection? Or . . .

The pieces fall into place. I lean back against the wall, feeling like the biggest ignoramus in the world.

This has got nothing to do with zombies.

Product.

This is about drugs.

Product is what drug cooks call drugs, isn't it? Grace, Michael, and Shaq are drug dealers! Or manufacturers, to be precise. They are cooking up some weirdo pill in the tower. The boxes of disinfectant in the stable — they probably use that in their drug kitchen; it makes total sense.

And they need the product to have
leverage
with . . . someone who wants what they have. Some drug overlord? I imagine a guy with a big black mustache, a shiny suit, and several scantily clad women draped over him. Those sorts of people kill other people. They will not be put off by a mere zombie apocalypse. They will come here, and they will kill whoever they find. They won't care that we're only school kids and not drug cooks. They'll shoot us first and ask questions later. We need to get out of here, and fast. Take our chances with the Undead. At least they don't have automatic weapons.