Undead (9780545473460) (8 page)

We leave the body in the snow. What else are we supposed to do?

Somehow Pete manages to drive the bus on fumes, out of the parking lot and down the road that leads past the gas station and to the café.

I feel empty. Should I be crying, or crazying it up? I killed the bus driver — or Smitty did. Or neither of us did, because he was already dead. This is way worse than Mr. Taylor. I killed a person I had been trying to heal a few hours before. I've heard of post-traumatic stress disorder — is that what I should be feeling? I sit, silent and strangely unafraid, as Pete teeters the bus down the hill, Smitty shouting directions, Alice watching for movement through the binoculars. I feel a catch in my throat, like some kind of weird, flipped-out pride. We're still alive.

The bus creeps past the gas station at a respectful distance. The black smoke has almost gone. I glance at the ground for blackened bodies, but there are none. Maybe they disintegrated in the explosion?

Likewise, the spot in the road where Mr. Taylor lay has been covered by fresh snow. I think I see a lump, but I can't be sure.

Good. It's easier not to see.

By the time we reach the café, I can feel the blood running through my veins again. This is no time for wallowing, or crying, or imagining, or asking why. That time will come later. This is the time for pulling together every ounce of strength and reserve and hope. I clench my fists until the white bones of my knuckles show through the skin.

Pete draws the bus to a halt outside the Cheery Chomper.

“Last stop, everybody off!” he calls. He's almost enjoying this. “End of the line.”

“Don't
even
,” says Alice quietly, but we're all ignoring him anyway.

The inside of the café is dimly lit — and there's an erratic flickering, like a strobe light. I can't see anyone, alive or dead or in-between.

The banner that was hanging above the entrance to the café has come undone at one end. It's flapping gently in the wind, beckoning us in.

“I think we can safely assume that everyone who was in there is now gone,” Pete says. “Vaporized by Smitty at the garage, probably.” But he stays at the wheel, and the engine is still running.

“Yeah?” Smitty says. “How about you test out that theory?”

Pete turns off the engine, but stays put.

We all stay put.

“We're not going to get anywhere chillin' on the bus.” I try to convince myself, as much as anyone else. I peer into the café. There are Christmas lights twinkling by the counter. It's January 9; they should have been taken down. Isn't that bad luck? “We have to assume nobody's coming,” I continue. “They would have come by now.”

“Where's Gareth?” Alice asks suddenly. “If he was heading here with the laptop, how come we can't see him?”

“He's probably in another room, in the back,” says Smitty. “I am going to kick his arse when I see him.”

Alice turns, blinking. “And the arses of anything else hiding in the back, too?”

She has a point. Just because we can't see jack doesn't mean that Undead Jack and Undead Jill aren't lurking in there with all of their friends, ready to Cheerily Chomp on us. But the fact remains, we have to do
something
.

OK, I've seen the movies. Believe me, I have shouted at my TV with the best of 'em.
Don't go in that haunted house, you losers! Don't walk through that graveyard! Don't check out that noise in the basement! Stay on the nice, safe bus and don't go in the creepy café!
I know,
I know
. We are relatively safe here. We're mobile — up to a point. Ms. Fawcett has packed way too many sugary drinks than is wise for a group of teens. We have all of our limbs. There's even a bathroom. We should just sit tight, right?

What you don't realize until you're right there in it, is the itch to keep moving. Maybe it's hormones, or a death wish, or the lack of access to social networking sites, but
jeez
it's hard being cooped up on a bus. And we're curious. We're hardwired to go into that café and face potential death, no matter how you slice it. It is
on
. It's just a matter of how long it takes to build up the courage.

“I'm going in.” Smitty moves to the doors. Not too long, then.

I sling my own backpack over one shoulder, then arm us with skis, poles, boards — because hey, it worked last time — the door is opened, and we all troop out. Pete thoughtfully shuts the door after us. There is a fresh layer of snow on the café steps, but it is lumpy with the footprints of our Undead classmates, and we advance up to the door awkwardly, walking like the first men on the moon. We look through the glass. All clear. Smitty slowly opens the door . . . a little, then wider, then all the way.

As he steps in, there's a loud
beeb-beep
, the modern equivalent of the shopkeeper's tinkling bell above the door.

“Great.” Smitty stops as if he's stepped on a land mine. “So much for the element of surprise.”

I step past him.
Beeb-beep.
Then Alice and Pete follow in quick succession.
Beeb-beep. Beeb-beep.

“Friggin' fantastic!” Smitty snarls. “Why don't you play a sodding tune on the thing!”

“Sorry.” Alice isn't, particularly.

“I thought it was the door,” I mutter.

Smitty points to the
WELCOME
beneath our feet. “Pressure mat.”

“Oh,” I mouth, as if I'm suddenly all about the quiet.

The door swings shut, Smitty holds up a hand, and we listen. There's an irregular buzzing noise that matches the flickering lights. And a strong smell of burnt oil. I guess the cooks forgot to switch the fryer off before they turned all dead and dribbly. To our left are the tables, with plates of half-eaten food and packets of opened sandwiches. There are coats draped over chairs, abandoned, their occupants no longer needing their warmth.

Beyond the eating area is a diner-style kitchen with ovens and a grill. This is the source of the flickering light.

To the right is a small shop selling snacks and magazines, and ahead of us a corridor leading to bathrooms and who knows what else. We wait for something to happen. Nothing does.

“On three,” Smitty says. “One, two —”

“On three what?” Alice says.

He rolls his eyes. “We get off the mat. One, two, three.”

As one, we tiptoe off the mat.
Beeb-beep.
Again. We wait to see what we've disturbed. Nothing comes.

“If Gareth was here —” I begin.

“He would have popped his cowardly head out the door to say hi?” Smitty finishes. “Not necessarily.” He advances toward the dining area and kitchen, brandishing a snowboard. I follow, checking out the shop on the way.

The good — or bad — news is that there aren't many places to hide. I check the corners. You always have to check the corners of the room — it's like Danger Sitch 101. That's where the bad guys lurk. There's an old-school phone on the counter in the shop. I try it, but the line is dead. Not dead, exactly — I can hear a kind of static, like it's plugged in but there's no dial tone. I press the buttons a few times, and I hear them dialing down the line but connecting to nothing. It's as if I'm already on a call and the person on the other end is listening, but not saying anything. Too eerie for words . . . I give up on it — disappointed and almost relieved in equal measure — and glance around the room for other options.

Leaving Alice and Pete standing back-to-back in the middle of the café as if tied to a stake, I make myself walk through the tables, gripping my ski pole as I peer around a half partition into the booths beyond. No one.

Smitty whistles at me and points to the counter at the open-plan kitchen, making some elaborate SWAT team hand signals. I think he just made them up, but it's clear what he means. We need to check the kitchen. Looks clear enough, but it would be simply amateur not to check it. Smitty approaches from the aisle; I'm threading my way through tables. If something jumps out, he's got a free run back to the exit while I'll be hurdling bolted-down furniture.
Great.
We reach the counter, the fluorescent light fluttering on and off with a metallic ting. Smitty holds up a hand, three fingers held upright. OK, another countdown. The boy clearly likes his countdowns.
Three, two, one . . .

I jump onto one of the plastic stools and scramble on top of the counter, ski pole aloft, my eyes darting — below, then to the corners of the kitchen, looking for a dark shadow, a nook, a cranny where evil lurks. The light strobes make everything into monsters.

Smitty giggles. He hasn't moved.

“All clear?” He's flat-out laughing now. My irritation makes me bold; I leap off the counter into the kitchen. It's empty. I stroll up to the counter door and swing it open.

“Want me to do all the work?” I saunter out past him, controlling my breath, not letting him see that I'm bothered.

“Hey, losers,” Alice hisses. “What about up there?” She's pointing to the rooms down the corridor.

Before I think about it too much, I'm walking up stained blue carpet. I call to Smitty, “You take the men's, I'll take the ladies'.”

“No, this time we go together.” He's by my side. I hate that I'm grateful.

There's nobody in the bathrooms. After we've checked them, we wait while Alice does what a girl's gotta do. She absolutely refused to go on the bus. I know where she's coming from, but man, that's some bladder control.

A storage room beyond the bathrooms is empty. Well, empty of people, laptops, and monsters. The door is ajar, and the light is on — which I can't help feeling is strange — but there's nothing in there except boxes of cleaning supplies and toilet paper.

Back in the corridor, there's only one room left, and it's marked
STAFF ONLY
. Smitty tries the door, but it doesn't open.

“Da fuh —?” He kicks out at it halfheartedly. There's a keypad on the wall with a little red light. Seems like the Cheery Chomper might have something worth protecting other than 10-percent-off-your-next-visit coupons. “You!” Smitty points at Pete. “Do something.”

“Me?” Pete stares at him. “What am I, R2-D2? Just because I'm the brains of this particular outfit, do you think I can circumnavigate a digital keypad locking system?” He holds a finger aloft and walks toward the keypad. “Excuse me while I access the security files through my wires.” He sticks his finger on the keypad and jolts around a bit, eyes flashing. It's quite a performance.

“You should get an award for lame.” Alice pushes past him. “Place like this, they'll keep it simple. Anything too complicated and the pondlife who work here wouldn't be able to remember it.” She types 1234. For a second, I think she's onto something. But the little light stays red, and the door won't budge. She tries 0123. Same deal.

“We should just smash it,” Smitty says.

“No!” I say. “What if it breaks and the door still won't open?”

He makes a face. “I mean, we should smash the
door
.”

“And then what?” I counter. “This is a pretty good spot to hide. It's warmer than the bus, we've got food and running water and who knows what else behind that door. But if we smash the door down, it means we can't lock it again. We won't be secure.”

“There's got to be a window in that room,” says Alice. “Or maybe another door.” She turns to me. “Go outside and look. When you get in, open the door for us.”

“Yes, ma'am.” I mock-salute. “Because
I'm
the expendable one? Does anyone want to take a vote on who we should risk here?”

“Oh, give it a rest.” She acts bored. “Take him with you.” She thumbs at Smitty. “You know you'll end up going — why waste time?” She pouts. She has lip gloss on. When the hell did she think to freshen up her makeup? There's shimmery eye shadow and long black lashes, too. She's one crazy chick. Mascary.