The Restless Dead: A Zombie Novel (7 page)

Sounds to me like he’s trying to ditch Doyle.

I’m in two minds. On one hand I’ll be glad to be away from a nutter with a bomb, but on the other, without his transport we’d end up having to look for another car if Kenny and Mustafa don’t make it here, and I don’t fancy our chances of finding another car before the zombies find us.

On top of that, Kenny and Mustafa haven’t exactly come across as handy so far. For all his so-called zombie knowledge, Kenny’s just a pair of glasses who doesn’t want to get his hands dirty, and Mustafa’s a wimp, good at showing off his perfect abs to giggling schoolgirls, but not much else.

Doyle finally gets out of the car and marches ahead of us, his oversized backpack on his shoulder. I don’t ask him if the bomb vest is inside, but I hope it is because, if those things get too close, I would rather death by bomb than death by zombie. The bomb will kill us outright; dead bastards will eat us alive, piece by agonizing piece.

Using the torches we brought to light our way, we climb up the hill as Scott enthusiastically informs us that there used to be a defensive ditch down here before it was filled in.

When the castle comes into view, I have to hide my disappointment. I imagined that Craigen Castle would be a majestic building, rising up out of the rugged Scottish landscape and straight to the heavens, a fitting sanctuary. The reality is more like a kick in the teeth. Time hadn’t done the old castle any favours. Where there were once four towers there are now two remaining. Only the northeast one is completely intact. The other tower is a pitiful one story tall.

“You call this safe?” I say it as though Scott’s going to say, “Naw, this isn’t the castle. It’s that bigger, much nicer one hiding behind it.” Wishful thinking on my part.

A flicker of satisfaction flashes across his face. “Aye, isn’t it grand?”

I don’t want to dampen his enthusiasm, so I don’t say anything, but in my head I’m picturing my own death, a human shaped ice cube frozen to a stone floor. It’s so cold, if I cry my tears will turn to icicles on my cheek.

We scope out the old ruins, find nothing alive, or dead, inside. Our footsteps echo off rough stone walls. Snow has drifted into a corner through a break in the wall. What I wouldn’t give for a blazing log fire right now, but even if we did have one it’d just attract the wrong sort of attention that gets you eaten.

Huddling together with Scott for warmth, I’m so cold, my teeth won’t stop chattering.

“Once the others join us we’ll head off to my parents,” says Scott. “The island should be safe.”

Scott’s parents live on an island with his sister. Unless you owned a boat, there was only one way on an off – by getting a ferry.

Scott carries on. “We’ll find a boat in Largs. There’s plenty of them.”

Doyle nods. “I’ll join you. What can be safer than an island?”

“And if there’s any zombies on the island, you can kill them for us.” This time I’m not being sarcastic. I mean it. Madmen have their uses.

“We’ll need supplies,” Doyle says. “Let’s hit St. Enoch’s shopping centre. Loads of stuff there that we need.”

With Kenny and Mustafa’s help, we could carry a lot. I wish they were here now to discuss how we’d pull it off.

I’m curious as to how we can get into the shopping centre. They don’t exactly leave the doors open. Or maybe the doors are already broken down, the windows smashed in, the place looted bare. I ask Doyle, “How are we going to get in, say abracadabra?”

My words are laden with sarcasm, but I couldn’t care less. I’m freezing to death. What’s Doyle going to do about it, blow me up with his stupid bomb? At least then I’d be warm.

I cuddled closer into Scott, hoping I won’t turn into a ice lolly.

Scott rubs my arm. “She’s right. We’ll just go straight to the island. Going to the shopping centre’s too dangerous.”

A small laugh escapes Doyle’s throat. He stands tall, chin raised. “You never know what trouble you’ll run into on the way. No. You’ll be going with me for supplies. Besides, we need food.”

“Like hell,” I say, “You’re not in charge of us.”

“You need me to lead you, keep you alive.”

“You? Our leader?” I scoff. Who does he think he is?

“We’ll do just fine on our own,” Scott says.

Doyle sneers. “Like the last time?”

“You caught us at a bad moment, that’s all.”

“Look.” Doyle kneels to our eye level. “It’s me who’s got the Rover. I’ve got the bomb, and I’ve got something else.” He reaches into his backpack and pulls out a gun. “One of these.”

A would-be mass murderer with a bomb and a gun, and wheels, and survival training he may have learned in one of those terrorist training camps al-Qaeda have in Pakistan. How lucky are we?

Scott holds up his hand. “All right. You call the shots, Doyle.”

I still wonder, though, “How are you going to get into the shopping centre? If it’s locked up, that is.”

“Ye of little faith,” says Doyle, clicking his tongue against his teeth. “I have the pass key for the security door.”

I’m impressed. He must’ve worked there... or... “How did you get one of those?”

Doyle winks at me.

“Trust me, Emma,” Scott says, his face serious. “You don’t want to know.”

That’s when it clicks, why someone would know this. He or one of his lot was going to bomb St. Enoch’s shopping centre, here in Glasgow. Gutless bastard.

Fury rises within me. Hundreds would have died, not only from the bomb, but from the falling masonry and the panic, the stampede to the doors, and the crush.

An image of the chaos flashes across my brain like a YouTube clip. In our short time together I’d almost forgotten what kind of man Doyle is, what he was capable of doing. And just because he didn’t let off his bomb, doesn’t mean he’s not the enemy.

“You’re nothing but a fucking murderer,” I scream at him.

“Emma,” Scott says, holding me tighter. “Whatever he was going to do, it doesn’t matter now. He’s one of us now. He saved us, remember that. We were dead meat. I was going to...” His eyes glass up.

“Scott, it’s all right. You didn’t do it. We’re safe now.”

“Aye, with me you are.” Doyle puts the gun away. “I don’t blame you for thinking I’m a piece of shit, but there’s a new game in town. Whoever we were before this happened, we’re not anymore. It’s a sign from Allah that we’ve lost our way. That we need to get our act together.” He eyes at me like he’s suddenly become a saint.

I’m not having that, not from him. “Don’t you dare preach to us.”

A flicker of anger flashes across Doyle’s face, and he’s no longer Mr Easy-going. “Who’s the one preaching?”

I clench my teeth.

We bed down on the stone cold floor in sleeping bags that Doyle brought from the back of his Rover. I’m wondering if he’s some kind of fugitive because he’s far too well equipped for someone who claims he was going to kill himself in a suicide bombing at the airport. He even brought a gas camping stove and some food up from the Rover, including tins of soup and teabags. Maybe he just talks tough, all righteous, while all along he planned to flee from his local terror cell to hide out in the Scottish hills like the Taliban do in Afghanistan. Who knows? He’s a man of mystery, and the truth is there are some things I just don’t want to know about him, under any circumstances.

Things like is the bomb vest in his backpack, or is it still sitting on the seat of the car?

I don’t sleep much. Every time I close my eyes I see gnarly hands grabbing for me and choppy teeth that want to rip my meat from my bones. I see Fiona’s lifeless body lying where we’d buried her in the cold ground. She’s all alone. Marie is probably flogging papers in heaven, free of all worldly worries, unlike Tam the Bam, reeking of booze, who’s probably in hell.

I imagine the woman in the apron with her son held close to her chest, wandering around in a daze, waiting for the police who would never come. The snowman that wasn’t a snowman at all.

I wonder if Stephen King could have imagined all this horror.

We were meant to take turns acting as lookouts, but Scott and I end up staying watch together. We’re too jumpy to do it alone. Every creak, whistle of the wind, rustle of leaves sound like someone coming for us, licking their lips in preparation for a bloody, gory feast.

10 SAFETY IN NUMBERS

By next morning, there’s still no sign of Mustafa and Kenny, and the realisation hits me like a punch in the jaw that they might not be coming. Scott doesn't say anything, but he's twitchy, eyes darting back and forth as he looks for his friends.

Doyle doesn’t say it, but I get the impression he couldn’t care less whether they turn up or not. Why should he when he doesn’t even know them?

Scott’s checking his watch every two minutes, his brows arched with concern. Finally, he says, “They should have been here by now.”

He’s right. Mustafa’s parents live in Bearsden, which isn’t that far away, even allowing for the hordes rampaging through the city, forcing them to take a detour to get to us.

When we get to one o’clock (or thirteen-hundred hours as Doyle calls it), the time we agreed we'd leave, there’s no sign of them. The impact of what that means doesn’t register on Doyle’s expressionless face; he never thought the pair were coming at all because he thinks they're dead. Maybe he even hopes they are dead because that way he won't have to face their scrutiny.

The way Scott’s avoiding my gaze as he brews some tea I can tell that he’s thinking his friends haven't made it. I feel a stab of disappointment. How can he give up on his friends so easily?

Although I’m desperate to leave too (staying one more night in this icebox will kill me), I don’t want to go without Mustafa and Kenny. They’re bringing Mustafa’s family. They’re counting on us being there when they arrive. We need to stick together.

As Doyle struts off, Scott hands me a cup of camping stove tea. We’ve agreed to wait ten more minutes. Doyle’s not happy, but screw him. He's not in charge.

Scott’s mouth is close to my ear. “We don’t have to go with him.”

His suggestion makes me angry. Why's he saying that? “We’re stuck here with no transport, so of course we need to go with him. What other option do we have?” 

There’s a glint in Scott’s eye. “We could get the keys off him, nick the Range Rover.”

The expression in his eyes makes me chuckle. “Aye, we could.” The hot tea scalds my tongue, but I don't care. At least it's warm. “A big score for amateur car thieves like ourselves.”

For a split second I consider grabbing the keys from Doyle's belt and running. But, I know it’s a crazy idea. We need to wait for Mustafa and Kenny, and as much as it destroys me to admit it, we do need Doyle. We needed him when we were fleeing from the flesh-eating freaks, and we need him now. That fact bugs the hell out of me, but it’s true. I don’t want to die, or worse, be turned into one of those slush brained bastards because I refused to use common sense.

In our situation, Doyle’s the kind of psychopath we need watching our backs.

Scott raises a comical eyebrow. “So, what do you think, Emma? Should we?”

“Aye,” I say. “You gut him like a fish with the Stanley knife while I grab the keys. What could possibly go wrong?”

For a moment as we laugh, I imagine that we’re back in our flat, watching one of our favourite shows, until the laughter fades and Scott turns serious. “Listen, Emma, whatever you do, don’t piss Doyle off.”

“Okay.” We share a small kiss. Scott tastes of tea and the salty cracker we shared.

Doyle returns, and I tilt my head in his direction, but don’t say a word. He examines his fancy Swiss army watch - bombing innocent civilians needs precision timing. “We have to get moving.”

I don't want to go. No way am I abandoning Kenny and Mustafa. “Just another ten minutes.” I show him my tea. I've deliberately left some. I need an excuse to delay us further. “I’d like to finish this.”

“Five.” He snaps it like an order. Who the hell does he think he is?

Panic burrows inside my stomach like cancer. Please to God, can civilisation be more than just us three? The world will be a more screwed up place than it already is if a suicide bomber survives and a nice guy like Kenny doesn’t.

11 MUSTAFA’S STORY

“For Christ sake, Kenny, where did you get this heap of junk from? The scrap yard? The pedal cars I had as a kid were faster.”

They were heading out to Bearsden to see his family, but with the way this heap was chugging along he'd be amazed if they made it that far. Smoke was belching out of the exhaust as though it was a factory chimney and the thing kept backfiring, jolting them out of their seats. On the plus side, any of those freaks they encountered soon scarpered when it sounded like fireworks were shooting out the exhaust.

Even in their fried brains they must have had some inbuilt survival mechanism to alert them to danger or ‘collective consciousnesses’ as Kenny called it. Or maybe their heads were bursting, which would explain their rage. Kenny had been watching the freaks as they'd driven by and he’d pointed out the ones on the ground with their hands cradling their heads, groaning.

“Quit your complaining, Muzz.” There’s mock outrage in Kenny’s tone. “It gets me from A to B.”

He gave him a sideways glance. “You have to start it with a fucking screwdriver.” He pointed to the tool on the dash where Kenny had pitched it after fiddling under the bonnet.

“It only cost me 150 quid.” Kenny says it with a proud grin on his mug, as though being a cheapskate was anything to boast about.

“Must have seen you coming, pal. Lucky it even started in this cold.”

Kenny bristled, “Okay, smart arse, where’s your car?”

“Saving up for a Maserati Gran Cabrio Sport, aint I?”

Other folk would have taken the piss, but not Kenny. Behind his glasses, his eyes glistened with interest. “How much will that set you back?”

He whistled through his teeth. “A lot of brass.”

“You’ll have your pick of fancy cars now, Muzz. And women. This is boom time for single guys such as ourselves.”

Mustafa grinned. He doesn’t tell Kenny he’s promised to marry his cousin in Pakistan. If there still is a Pakistan.

Not that they’ve come across any women lately, anyway, unless he counts the gobby cow Scott is lumbered with. Not that he’d say that to her face because she knew how to wield a baseball bat like a psycho. He'd seen it with his own eyes.

Kenny’s comment got him thinking that maybe he should see what was happening in Glasgow as an opportunity and not as a freaking nightmare. Maybe that’s the way to play it, instead of all this doom and gloom stuff and we’re all gonna die because there’s cannibals round every corner wanting to chew on our brains. These zombies could be his way out of an arranged marriage to a girl he’d never met. Knowing his luck, his intended probably looked like one the two monstrosities from that movie East is East: all buckteeth and glasses.

His high spirits nosedived the minute Kenny drove down the road leading to his house, and he saw a body sprawled on the road.

“Look out!”

Kenny swerved to try and miss it, but there wasn't enough time. A crunch was followed by a hellish squeal, as though a dog had been run over, then the spin of wheels as the car kept going until it slammed onto the pavement, knocking over a bin and skidding onto someone’s front lawn.

He glanced at Kenny, sitting dazed in the driver’s seat. “Dunderheid.” Then he leapt out of the car. He wanted to make sure they hadn’t run over someone he knew.

Worry pounded in his head as if a thrash metal band had taken up residence inside as he made his way to the body lying on the ground.

When he reached the broken carcass he couldn’t tell whether it was a man or a woman because the body was face-down, and the back of the skull had been crushed in, maybe by Kenny’s car, or perhaps it was that way before they arrived.

He used a foot to roll over the body. His eyes homed in on the midsection first. The person was wearing a postman’s outfit. The ribs were stripped of flesh. His eyes drifted up to the face. It’d been flattened like a mask, and an eye has been torn from the socket. Flesh had been ripped from the cheeks, and the nose and lips were missing, making the face resemble a half-assembled skull from a museum. There was no blood. Whoever this was had been dead a while. 

“Fuck.”

Kenny hadn’t left the car. He was sitting in the driver’s seat no doubt fiddling with those fucking specs as if that was gonnae save the world. Heroes got cute blonde cheerleaders; Mustafa got Kenny, the Milky Bar kid. He wished he could trade. And he wondered why he brought Kenny here? All he was going to do was get in the way. But he'd needed Kenny’s wheels.

He was about to tell Kenny to get his lazy backside out of the motor and help him move the body, when a bony hand rose up from the ground and scrunched his balls like they were a stress ball. It happened so fast he didn’t have time to cry out, never mind break away. The breath was being squeezed out of him from down under and as he choked for air, he felt himself falling as the corpse dragged him towards its jagged teeth and certain death.

No matter how hard he kicked and tried to haul the hand away, it remained stuck to his crotch. He was going to die in the jaws of a half-dead corpse that stunk of rotting dog, and that speccy-eyed loony tunes in the front seat wasn’t even going to fucking notice.