Flesh of the Zombie (3 page)

“A zombie’s flesh,” breathed Luke.

“Well,” said Cleo. “We’ve got plenty to choose from.”

“But only one was the first to live in Scream Street,” reminded Resus.

Luke stared at the hordes of dancing zombies around them. “How are we ever going to find the right one among this lot?”

Resus pulled a bottle of beer from his cape and grinned. “We talk to our man on the inside!” As he flipped the top from the beer bottle, a hand shot out of the crowd and grabbed it. It was Doug.

“Cheers, little dude!” beamed the familiar face, taking a long drink.

“Doug, what’s going on?” asked Resus.

“Party’s going on, my man,” replied the zombie, wiggling his hips.

“No, I mean, what’s all this about?”

Doug smiled, revealing the maggots crawling around inside his mouth. “It’s the greatest zombie rock festival in the world, man.”

“Zombie rock festival?” asked Luke.

“Dudes, welcome to Deadstock!”

Cleo gazed around the square. “It’s—”

“Totally awesome, I know!” said Doug excitedly. “Me and Turf were psyched when it was relocated here at the last minute.” He gestured towards the zombie spinning records. “This here’s my main man, Flatboy Skin.” Resus tried not to stare as he realized that the zombie was only a couple of millimetres thick — and had tyre marks running up the front of his body.

The DJ nodded his wafer-thin head towards them. “Whassup?”

“What are
those
guys doing?” asked Luke, indicating a team of zombies in ragged overalls who were moving wooden boards around.

“They’re setting up the stage, little dude,” replied Doug. “Ready for our headlining act, Brain Drain.”

“Brain Drain!” exclaimed Cleo. “So the zombies weren’t after our brains at all.”

Doug fixed the trio with a serious stare. “Brain-eating is strictly off limits during Deadstock,” he said, adding in a whisper, “although I know a guy who can get you a nice juicy spleen for the right price …”

“But the zombies were grabbing at us!” said Resus.

“It’s the spirit of Deadstock, dudes,” replied the zombie. “Hug and be hugged! There was a song about it on Brain Drain’s second album.”

“I almost hate to ask,” said Luke, leaning against a tall black speaker, “but who, or what,
are
Brain Drain?”

“Dudes,” enthused Doug, “they’re only the hottest flesh-metal band in the world! The Drab Four themselves! This is one of their songs playing now: ‘Eat Up from the Feet Up’. Vein is such a righteous singer.”

Luke, Resus and Cleo strained to listen to the song’s lyrics over the noise of a screeching electric guitar.

“Biting, chewing, ripping, crunching!”
screamed the singer. “I’m gonna dine on you!”

Luke smiled politely. “It’s great.”

“It’s loud,” added Cleo.

“It’s
finished!”
growled a voice, and the music suddenly came to a stop. Luke, Resus and Cleo spun round to discover Sir Otto Sneer, the landlord of Scream Street, behind them at the DJ booth. Clutched in his hand was an electrical
plug, and smoke curled up from the noxious cigar clamped between his teeth.

“Deadstock is over!” he roared.

Gradually the dancing zombies
realized there was no longer any music playing. One by one they shuffled round to glare at Sir Otto.

“I don’t know who told you freaks to come here,” bellowed the landlord, “but if you don’t leave immediately, I’ll have G.H.O.U.L. banish you all to the Underlands!”

Luke shuddered. G.H.O.U.L. – Government
Housing Of Unusual Life-forms — was the organization that had sent the Movers to relocate his family to Scream Street. Sir Otto’s threat was not one to be taken lightly.

“Whoa,” said Doug. “Chill out, dude!”

“Chill out?” roared Sir Otto, throwing the plug to the ground.
“Chill out?”

A tall, younger man with lank ginger hair appeared behind the landlord and whispered in his ear, “Uncle Otto …”

“Sir
Otto!”

“Sorry,” whispered Dixon, the landlord’s nephew. “Sir Uncle Otto, I don’t think he really wants you to get chilly. I just think he means you should relax.”

Sir Otto’s face turned purple. “I’ll show them what I do to relax!” Snatching the Brain Drain album from the turntable, he smashed it to the ground.

Doug stared at the broken record in horror. “No way!”

“That’s
what I do to relax,” screeched Sir Otto, grabbing another record from the DJ’s box. “That, and
this
!” The irate man hurled the record out into the crowd like a Frisbee, where
it wedged itself into the soft flesh of a nearby zombie’s face.

“Ouch!”

As Sir Otto reached for another record, Flatboy Skin growled. “Petal!” he commanded in a low voice.

Luke was jolted as the wall behind him began to move. It took him a second to realize that it wasn’t the speakers he’d been leaning against, but the stomach of a massive zombie dressed all in black.

“Boss?” asked Petal, cracking the bones in his neck menacingly.

The DJ pointed to Sir Otto with a flat hand. The security guard grabbed the landlord’s collar with a fist the size of a chair, lifting him clear off the ground. He lurched towards the gates of Sir Otto’s mansion, Sneer Hall.

“What are you doing?” shouted the landlord. “PUT ME DOWN THIS MINUTE!”

Dixon ran to catch up with Petal. Tapping the zombie’s shoulder, he asked, “Can I get a lift, please?” The huge zombie grunted and swung the thin man over his shoulder. “Thank you!”

“Dixon, you moron,” came the muffled voice
of Sir Otto as the security guard carried the two men off. “You’re a shapeshifter! Why don’t you change into something useful?”

Doug winked at the DJ as he plugged the record-player back in. “I think we need to drown out that noise, dude …”

Flatboy Skin dropped another record onto the turntable, and within seconds the sound of Brain Drain rang out across the square once more.

“Man, that was bogus,” said Doug as the zombies began to dance again. “I hate to think
how these guys would react if Brain Drain didn’t appear!”

“Speaking of ‘these guys’,” said Luke, “we’re trying to find a particular zombie. The first zombie ever to live in Scream Street.”

“Tough task, little dude,” replied Doug. “If you ask me, you want to speak to the guy who organized this shindig.”

“Who is it?” asked Cleo. “Who’s in charge?”

Doug pointed a scabby finger towards a shimmering figure supervising the building of the stage. “Our very own neighbour, and president of Moantown Records, Fool Spectre!”

More and more zombies poured into the central square as Luke, Resus and Cleo danced their way from the DJ booth to the stage. Movement of any kind was becoming increasingly difficult.

“We’re getting nowhere fast,” said Resus, opening the gate to the nearest house. “Let’s go round the outside of the square, through the gardens.” He led the way across a lawn that was pockmarked with holes. More of the creatures were appearing by the minute.

“Be careful, Cleo,” warned Luke as a slavering,
lipless zombie stumbled towards them. “These ones might not know the no-brainer rule yet.”

Cleo pulled a face. “You two haven’t got any faith in me, have you?”

“It’s not that,” said Resus. “But out of the three of us, it’s usually you who gets captured, lost or injured.”

“And I suppose I need protecting because I’m a girl, do I?”

“She’s off again,” Resus sighed, pushing through the hedge into the next garden. Luke followed, shaking his head.

“I’m not stupid!” Cleo shouted after them. “I know that—”

She suddenly found herself being lifted off her feet. It was the grey zombie with one eye.

“Brain drain! Brain drain!”

“Ow! I know it’s in the spirit of Deadstock and all that,” shouted Cleo, “but that hurts!” The zombie clutched her to his chest, smothering her face in his diseased skin and muffling her cries for help. Luke and Resus carried on, oblivious.

“Mmph mm-mpph!”
grunted Cleo, grimacing against the awful stench of the zombie as it carried her along.

“Brain drain! Brain drain!”

Cleo felt her consciousness begin to drift away as the creature clutched her tighter and tighter.

A pale green hand shot up from one of the holes and gripped the zombie’s ankle. The monster fell, dropping Cleo to the grass. The mummy staggered to her feet, but before she could run, the same green hand grabbed her leg and pulled her into the hole and underground.

As her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness of the tunnel, Cleo found herself face to face with a young zombie: a boy around the same age as herself.

“P-please don’t hurt me,” stammered Cleo, trying to back away.

The zombie moved into a thin shaft of light that shone down from above. Raising a finger to his cracked lips, he gestured for her to be quiet.

Above them, the ground shook as Cleo’s captor stomped around the garden, searching for his lost prize. “Brain drain! Brain drain!”

After a moment the footsteps thudded away.

“You saved me,” said Cleo.

The young zombie stared at her. “You’re not like the others,” he said.

“I’m not a zombie, if that’s what you mean,” replied the mummy. “My name is Cleo. What’s yours?”

The young zombie shrugged unhappily. “I don’t know.”

“You mean you can’t remember who you were before …”