Holiday of the Dead (33 page)

In the yard below he could see that three more figures had just appeared.

“What are they?” Guy Fallon asked as he watched another two figures stumble across to what remained of John Gatley. Five minutes had passed and all seven of the upstairs teachers stood huddled close to the window. Doyle’s class shifted uneasily in their seats, their initial high spirits over the interruption of their exam and seeing a naked woman had quickly turned to fear once it became obvious that their Maths teacher was dead. Those sitting by the window could see that all that remained of the man was a bloodied heap and their ashen faces were enough to convince the others that they should sit tight and await instructions.

“I don’t know,” Doyle replied as his mobile phone continued to blare out the same annoying sound. He lowered the phone in frustration. “I don’t know if there’s no signal or if the masts are down from the storm.” He thrust the phone back in his pocket. “I can’t get anybody.”

“They can’t get in can they?” Theresa Stuart asked as she fidgeted with her hands.

“Oh shit, the doors are still open,” Doyle cursed, annoyed with himself that he hadn’t thought of it before. “Guy, take three of the boys and head down to the doors by the pool entrance and close them, pile up anything you can around the doors to make sure they can’t break in. I’ll get the keys from the Principal’s office and send one of the boys after you. I’ll take care of the other end.” The man nodded and went back to his class to pick the boys he could trust.

“Peter,” he gripped Peter Matthews, the Physics teacher, by the arm and pulled him to the side. “I need you and two others to go down to the classrooms downstairs and bring the boys up here. Do it quietly if you can, the classes on the far side won’t have seen what’s happened yet and we can’t afford a panic.” The man nodded, gathered up his team and left the room.

“Theresa.” The woman jumped at the sudden mention of her name and Doyle took her hand gently in his. “I need you and the others to keep the boys calm up here. Keep trying my mobile and see if you can get emergency services.” He fished in his pocket and passed over the phone as the woman nodded. “Try to keep them in the rooms over on the other side of the corridor if you can. The less they see of what’s out there the better. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

He left before anyone had time to argue or wonder at the fact that he had just given orders to staff far more senior than himself or even that they had obeyed without argument.

By the time he was half-way down the stairs there were already a number of teachers and students out in the ground floor corridor nervously swapping stories of what they had seen or heard. Nobody was panicking just yet but there was definitely a charge in the air. He could see Peter Matthews and his chosen team struggling through the mass of bodies as they tried to get to each of the teachers and pass on his instructions. They weren’t getting very far. The situation was liable to become uncontrollable soon enough if someone didn’t take charge.

“All right, pay attention now.” His voice boomed out over the crowd and his elevated position on the stairs gave everyone an easy focus. The clamour reduced and then disappeared after a chorus of ‘hush’ rang out from the teachers. “We need you all to make your way quietly up to the classrooms upstairs. Johnson,” he snapped as a boy pushed open the main doors, his cigarettes and lighter in his hand as he tried to sneak in a quick fag in the confusion. “Close that door right now and get upstairs before I suspend you. Move.”

Nobody really knew what was going on yet, thankfully. Some had heard screams but the view of the yard from the ground floor of the school was mostly blocked by hedging so they had been mercifully spared the grisly scenes. Doyle sighed with relief as the students and teachers started to move up the stairs, the teachers looking puzzled and suspicious but were experienced enough to recognise a situation when they saw one and herded their classes up the stairs.

Doyle ran down the length of the corridor. The school housed five hundred pupils and fourteen teaching staff. The building was shaped in an ‘E’ shape but without the central protrusion. There were two doors at either end of the structure on both sides and a main, central door half way up the long corridor. Classrooms were situated on both sides of the corridor and the Principal’s office was at the far end on the main road side. Doyle paused briefly in front of the office to catch his breath. He didn’t like Principal Atkins and was pretty sure the feeling was mutual. He sucked in a breath, turned the handle and proceeded inside.

Atkins bolted upright at the unannounced entry and began to rise. “What the hell …”

“Headmaster, we’ve got to lock the doors to the school,” Doyle interrupted and saw the man go red with anger as he stood up so quickly that a number of reports fell to the floor.

“Doyle, why aren’t you in class?” The headmaster stretched to save another pile of files from falling to the floor and then cursed as they fell anyway. “What the hell do you mean we have to lock the doors?” His deep, gruff voice was in total contrast to his wiry frame. “You …”

“Sir,” Doyle interrupted again and tried really hard to remain calm and respectful. He needed the headmaster’s co-operation so pissing him off wouldn’t help anyone. “There’s been a bit of trouble outside and there’s a crowd gathering in the yard.” Doyle had decided to keep the story simple for now, at least until the doors were safely secured. “I really need the keys.”

“A crowd? What the hell is a crowd doing in my school? Really Doyle, must I do everything myself? I’ll move them on.” Atkins pushed past Doyle who was so startled he merely let the man brush past and head towards the back door.

“Sir,” Doyle hurried to catch up on the headmaster but the man had already opened the door and disappeared out into the yard. “Shit, that didn’t exactly go as planned,” he muttered and hurried through the door after him.

Doyle rounded the corner so quickly that he was unable to avoid the now stationary headmaster and bumped into the man’s back. Atkins would normally have snapped a stream of abuse at anyone for being so clumsy but he seemed not even to notice. He stood still and looked out over the yard as if in a trance, his face pale and gaunt. There was a group of around fifteen figures standing only twenty feet away. There was a stench in the air; at one minute strong and cloying as the wind whipped around them.

The figures themselves were totally silent. Some of them shuffled, stiff-legged and awkward as if they had only just learned to walk. Others just stood there with their heads raised slightly as if they were sniffing the air. Now that he was closer, Doyle could see that these people were far from normal. Their skin was pale, almost translucent, and their eyes were dry and lifeless.

The naked woman stood closest to him and he could see red smears around her mouth and jagged red lines down her skin where blood had splattered her and dripped down. The shapeless husk of what remained of John Gatley lay in a wide pool of blood at her feet. The headmaster dug both hands into his pockets and retrieved a large set of keys with one hand, while bringing a handkerchief to his mouth with the other. He handed them mutely to Doyle.

“Sorry, Doyle,” he whispered at last. “Quite right. We need to lock the school and protect the boys.” Just then the naked woman seemed to notice them. She opened her mouth silently and started to shuffle towards them. The figures around her fell into step behind her. The situation was surreal. Doyle’s mind screamed at him to move but he remained rooted to the spot. He could hear the shuffling of feet and the dry rustle of old clothes. His eyes took in the grey, ashen faces before him, the dead eyes. At one level he knew what these people were but his rational mind refused to allow such thoughts and his mind swirled with alternate explanations. It was the smell that finally snapped him out of his stupor. It hit him like a slap as the wind changed direction again. Nausea burned in his stomach and bile rose in his throat. He retched and, suddenly, he could move.

He ran back towards the door, grabbing the headmaster’s jacket and pulling him back inside the school where he slammed the door closed. He fumbled with the keys, there were so many, and tried key after key as he divided his attention between the lock and the approaching crowd. He had seen such scenes in the movies over and over again, where the hero fumbled with keys and the bad guys drew closer and closer. The thrill of seeing it on the screen did not translate well to real life.

He was terrified, the keys slipped in his sweaty hands and the lock seemed to grow smaller with each failed attempt. One of the figures stumbled and fell against the door, catching the lever in its jacket as it slipped down and holding the latch open. The door opened inward slightly. Doyle tried to push against the door but the weight of the other figures proved too much and the gap began to widen. Doyle slammed his foot against the door to stop it opening further but the distraction caused him to drop the keys and they fell on the door jam and slipped onto the ground outside.

“Shit!” he muttered and dropped to his knees, while balancing his foot against the door. The sheer weight of the bodies against the door was forcing his foot inwards and hands began to force their way in and tear at him. He tried a number of times to shoot his hand out through the gap but he kept snatching his hand back as one of the attackers made a swipe at him.

The door was open wide enough now to allow the lead figure to squeeze its head through and Doyle knew that he only had one more chance. He sucked in a breath and made a dive for the keys, ignoring the hands that grabbed and raked at him. One hand gripped his wrist and the coldness seemed to suck at his own body, numbing his arm in seconds.

The hand was caked with dirt; its fingernails were long, split and torn but its grip was limp and without force. Doyle pulled his hand away and stretched towards the keys. His finger pulled at the ring as another hand grabbed his hair and pulled. He screamed. The attacker who had fallen against the door was suddenly in front of him, looking straight into his eyes.

The reek of decay hit Doyle as the attacker leaned towards his outstretched hand with its mouth wide open. Doyle steeled himself and forced his hand closer to the gaping mouth, grabbed at the keys and wrenched his hand back. Drool from the thing’s mouth smeared his wrist and he spent precious seconds wiping his hand in disgust against his trousers before he could bear to continue.

He pushed hard against the door but one of the things had got its head through and Doyle couldn’t force the door closed. Suddenly the head was struck by a wooden plank and the figure was sent sprawling back against its companions, allowing Doyle to slam the door closed. He looked up to see Atkins with a metre long weapon in his hand and nodded mutely. He looked down at the keys again and finally found one that looked right. He rammed it into the lock and slumped in relief as he felt the lock click home.

The naked woman pressed against the glass and Doyle found himself rooted to the spot as he stared into the woman’s dead eyes. His mind was still trying to come up with a rational explanation but the theories proposed were getting more and more desperate. These people were dead. Of that he had no doubt. How they could move about he had no idea but that they were dead was certain. The naked woman was fairly recently deceased but some of the figures behind her had been dead for some time. One man had decayed to such an extent that much of the flesh had already peeled away from his skull and one eye had fallen from its socket. Another woman had obviously been involved in an accident of some sort and bore puckered scars across her throat that exposed the bone.

“Here, this might give it better support,” Atkins came up behind him with a desk that had one of the wooden supports missing from its main strut. “There are a few more in the store room,” Atkins panted as he manoeuvred the desk into place against the door. Doyle was surprised at the headmaster’s calm; he had expected the man to be impossible and overbearing, even in a crisis. He nodded at the man and sighed in relief. They just might get through this after all.

There was mayhem upstairs. Students stood around on the stairs or wandered aimlessly along the corridors in small groups, their pale faces attesting to the subject of their hushed conversations. The buzz of their exchanges was like a swarm of bees and Doyle could see teachers moving among the groups, their voices raised in pitch but lacking any real authority as their own fear stripped them of their authority. They were frightfully outnumbered by the students and losing control fast. Doyle was about to shout when Atkins surprised him again. He strode forward into the throng.

“Right, first to third years into rooms twelve and thirteen, open out the partition so you can all fit. Seniors, take room eleven. Move it, boys.” His calm, authoritative voice easily cut through the melee and the boys began to filter into the rooms like chastened sheep.

“Impressive,” Doyle heard himself mutter.

“Why thank you, Richard,” he replied and walked after the boys to ensure they followed his instructions. Doyle was left staring at the man’s back with his mouth open.

He saw Theresa come out from the classroom opposite his own.

“Any luck with the police, Theresa?”

“No, but I don’t think we’re likely to get through.” She stopped in the doorway, looked along the corridor and motioned discreetly for Doyle to come over. “There’s something you need to see.”

Doyle frowned but followed her through into the room. This classroom was opposite his own and looked out over the main road. The windows had been replaced a few years ago with thick, sound-proofed glass due to the growing distraction of the traffic outside so the room was blissfully quiet when he entered. Theresa strode over to the window but didn’t look out, turning instead to watch Doyle approach.

“I don’t think we can expect help anytime soon.”

Doyle knotted his eyebrows in confusion but Theresa merely pointed towards the window. Doyle shrugged and looked out. The road was filled with cars, unusual at this hour but not completely unknown. The silence of the scene before him left him feeling disassociated from reality. Car doors lay open; smoke spiralled from overheated engines where vehicles had crashed into posts or other cars. People ran aimlessly, their mouths open in silent screams as other, slower figures pursued them relentlessly. Bodies lay on the ground or slumped in their cars, unmoving and oblivious to the carnage around them.