Unfed (3 page)

Red sidestepped the first attack; she’s smart. People with orange hair always have great survival instincts. She launches herself at the bed, and
she’s quick, too — faster than any other zom I’ve seen. But not that fast. I bring my pole down flat on the back of her head, and she eats mattress. Reaching for the chair again, I turn and start to climb up onto it —

— but Red’s not dead. She grabs my boot, and with surprising strength she wrestles it from the chair and before I know it I’m joining her down among the sheets again. She’s on top of me, a writhing, skinny thing, more a bag of bones held together by sinew and fury, gnashing teeth mere inches away from my exposed fleshy bits. Her breath is rank and fishy. I want to scream but I don’t dare open my mouth for fear the rancid stuff spilling out of hers will drip into me. The pole lies squashed between us, and I can’t grab it — my hands are on her arms, holding her away from me.

But her wriggling helps me out, dislodging the pole so it falls to one side. I push her off me with one almighty heave, then seize the pole like a Crusader, and just as she falls on top of me again, I thrust it up through the soft skin under her chin. The metal pierces flesh easily, moves up through her face, and with another thrust, pops out of her eyehole, pushing the cloudy eyeball out onto her cheek.

It is, without doubt, the bang-up, A1, tip-toppity grossest thing I have ever witnessed in my entire life.

It hasn’t finished her, but it’s certainly rocked her world a little. She gulps and flaps, her attention briefly moving away from me and onto getting the pole out. And that’s enough for me to
carpe
my
diem
. I push her off and clamber onto the chair.

The mob surges toward me, but it’s too bad for them. Using the chair like a springboard, I jump and pull myself up into the vent, launching headlong into that hole. A hand brushes my ankle, but it’s too late — I wiggle in and snap my legs up behind me, out of reach, safe.

It’s only then I wonder if this goes anywhere. Could well be a dead end.
Ha. Ha. Ha
.

I realize my eyes have been shut. I open them. Darkness. Bloody hell. Coulda used a flashlight in this situation. There’s only my phone for light, but I don’t want to use up precious battery. This is the point in the movie where the hero normally reaches for a cigarette lighter to see the way, but smoking’s not one of my bad habits, so that’s not an option. Guess I’m going to feel my way.

The sound of their baby-groans follows me up the vent. I scrabble forward a little, then twist and try to look behind me. Who knows, one of those things maybe got clever with the bed-chair combo and is currently crawling up on my ass — but there’s nothing back there except a square of light. I seem to remember they weren’t too bright at climbing. Lucky for me.

I slither forward on elbows and knees, not quite enough height to fully crawl. It’s slippery, and half the time I seem to propel myself backward. My damp palms make squeaky noises on the metal lining of the vent. Hope this is not a heating vent. If the heat comes on, I’ll be roasted in this thing like the biggest turkey on the farm. Nom, nom, nom.

Ow!
My hand shoots out and hits a solid thing. Dead end after all? My heart sinks. But wait … there’s a draft on the top of my head. I look up. Can’t see anything. I lift a hand. OK, so we’re going up. I gather my legs beneath me and gingerly stand. I’m almost fully upright when my bald head touches the top. In front of me is another opening.
Sweet
. We just moved up a level. I pull myself up and wiggle into the new vent.

Now that I’m away from the room, the groans have gone. But there’s a low hum, like a throbbing sound. I shiver as I imagine what may be waiting for me. Could one of these things be in the vent ahead? Sure, they
can’t climb for fudge, but what if they got in a different way, up ahead? It’s totally possible. I stop crawling and lie there, listening to the sound.

Poop-a-loop, that could totally be moaning. I could be crawling to my death here.

But I realize there’s a rhythm to it. It’s got to be mechanical. I gather up my guts and go for it. Only one way, and that’s forward. It’s hot in here, I’m sweating in my fleece. Sure wish I had some kind of legwear on, though.

I hit another wall. Up again? No — the breeze is hitting my right cheek. The vent has doglegged — I’ve reached a corner. I wiggle onto my side and push myself round ninety degrees. The breeze gets stronger, the throbbing suddenly loud.

Hey, I can see something! A square of light, really dim, up ahead. I scrabble on.

There’s a fan at the end of the vent, with light coming up from a grating in the floor. Or I can carry on to the right.
Decisions, decisions
. Either one could be my way out of the rat run.

I stare down through the grating into the room below.

A bed.

I shift myself slightly, trying to get a better view.

A head? Yes, it’s a girl perched on the bed. I shift again to see more. Her legs are drawn in, defensive. I feel a rush of hope — we’ve got a live one, people!

I push gently at the grating — don’t want to alarm her, but how do you not?
Shoot
, it’s not budging. Should I call down? Better not, she’ll freak. Plus, I want to be sure she’s not infected or crazy or something. I put more pressure on the grating. Suddenly it gives way completely, falling down, down on top of the girl, hitting her square on her head.

She screams and rolls off the bed.
Shit!
Have I killed her?

There’s crying.
Phew
. Maybe maimed for life, but not killed. I pull myself up and think about how I’m going to get down into the room. There’s no space to squeeze my legs around, I’m going to have to go headfirst. I hang on with my hands and birth myself through the hole: head, shoulders, then butt — upside down. Then I hook my knees so I dangle.

Maybe the girl will help me … ? I look around for her.

Before I can focus, there’s a
screech
and I’m whacked in the face. I fall onto the bed — not nearly as soft as I’d hoped — and the girl is attacking me, hitting my head with something, hitting hard. I wrap my arms round my face.

“Quit it!” I cry out. “It’s OK. I’m not one of them!”

The hitting stops. I peep out from behind my arms.

There, standing over me with a furious expression and a bottle-green Bible held aloft, is Alice.

“You!”

Alice spits at me, trembling. “Are you trying to scare the crap out of me?” She chucks the Bible at me.

“Hey!” I shout. “Cut it out!”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Lovely to see you, too, Alice.”

“Is there anyone chasing you?” She’s pushing me off the bed and trying to peer up into the vent.

“No.” I pull myself up to my feet with difficulty, my arms throbbing from the Bible-bashing. “Are we safe in here?”

She shakes her blonde head. That hair looks glossier than ever, especially now that I’m bald.

“Probably not. Typical. That woman has been telling me I’d be fine in here; I should have known never to trust a fatty.”

So she’s met Martha. Cruel, and quintessential Alice, but also pretty accurate, it has to be admitted. I move to the door and place a tentative hand on the handle.

“They locked you in, too?”

“What do you think?” Abandoning the vent, she goes to the window
and peeps out through the blinds. “I knew it was just a matter of time before stuff went
stupide
again. How many are there?”

“Don’t know.” I rub my hand. “Some of them broke into my room. Kids. Through the vent was the only way out.”

“Do you think they’ll break in here?” She frowns at me.

“They could.” I start to pull the bed away from the wall. “Help me move this against the door, it’s a good start.”

She sighs and complains, just as I expected she would, but obliges all the same. Once again the damn brakes are locked, guaranteeing the whole exercise is superfun. We grunt and groan as we force the bed into position.

I clamber over and we both sit side by side at the foot of the bed on the floor. Alice squints at me.

“God, you’re looking
très
fuglier than usual. What did you do to yourself?”

I run my hand over my head. “Not my choice.”

“Army-licious.” Alice curls her lip. “You smell of wee, too. And what about
that
?” She gestures at my lower half, bare legs sticking out of hospital robe. “What happened? Did they rip your jeans off, or are you going for the Combat Ho look?”

I eye her peach-colored sweats. “Whereas you’re rocking that velour.”
Right back at you, sista
.

“At least I’m not flashing my butt,” she says with considerable distaste. “Did they do experiments on you, too?”

“No — what?” I get up and move to the window to check outside again. “I mean, for all I know, they could have done anything to me. I was out for weeks after the crash. Do you remember who brought us here?”

Alice shakes her head, and her hair moves prettily.
Gah
, I envy it. “I woke up in some plastic tent. Zombie quarantine. They told me I couldn’t ring my parents, even. I’ve been going mental ever since.”

No change there, then
. I would have thought she could’ve killed a coupla weeks just looking in the mirror. I glance at her. “The others? Have you seen them? Pete? Smitty?”

She holds up her hands and shrugs. “They told me four survived.”

“Didn’t you even ask who else?” I give her a look.

“Of course I did!” she shouts back. “They told me nothing, just fed me airplane meals and stuck needles in me. All I know is that Scotland has gone all Och Aye the Ghoul.” She stops and looks at me. “God, I hope Smitty didn’t zombify,” she says. “Because if he did, I bet you any money he’ll come after me.”

Personally, I think that if Smitty’s a zombie he’ll be far more discriminating than to chomp on Alice.

“He couldn’t have turned. He had the entire syringe of antidote in his leg, remember?”

Alice blinks. “How could I forget? You chose to save your boyfriend before saving the entire human race!”

I do a complicated snort-cum-eye-roll combo that clearly screams
I did not!
and
He is so not my boyfriend!
But I find it interesting that I Don’t Actually Say the Words. Partly because I don’t need the drama of an Alice-a-thon argument, and partly because a teeny weeny bit of me thinks she might be right. On both counts.

“Maybe your mum could tell us.” She nods behind her as if Mum is just waiting outside the door. “Help us get out of here. She was pretty good at that before.”

“Yeah.” I press my cheek against the glass and try to look into the windows across the courtyard. “Except they told me she was dead.”

Alice gasps. “Are you serious?”

“Yep.” I glance at her.

She has one hand clamped across her mouth, her eyes blinking rapidly. The hand falls away. “That’s terrible!” There’s a glint of a tear in her eye. “How on earth are we going to get out of here now?”

Nice one, Alice. Just think about how this is going to affect you, huh?

“I might have an idea.” I lift my foot and pull my phone out of my boot.

“Oh my god!” Alice cries. “Have you tried to call for help?”

“Not yet.” I switch it on, and make a silent prayer. It takes an age to spring into life. Alice gets bored and pushes in to look at the little screen. She groans and throws her head back.

“Don’t tell me. No reception. Big fat surprise. There never is. Like, how do you spell YAWN.”

I move to the window, but still nada. “So we go somewhere we can get reception.”

“If that place actually exists!”

The pit of my stomach is warning me that Alice might be right. I check my text messages. Nothing new. Just a couple of old ones of Mum’s. The sight of them chokes me up a little. I go to press the
OFF
button, but before I do, I see there’s an icon in the corner of the screen that I don’t recognize.

Was that there before?

It’s a little book. I think it’s telling me I have numbers stored, or something. Why is that bugging me?

“What is it?” Alice says.

“Nothing.”

“Not nothing. Your crazy’s showing. What’s eating you?”

I shake my head, knowing how lame this is going to sound. “I’m Bobby-no-Buddies, remember? But the phone’s telling me I’ve got numbers stored.”

“Gimme that.” Alice snatches at it and deftly navigates the menu. “Pleased to tell you you have friends now.”

I take the phone back. There’s a list on the screen:

With trembling hands I scroll down the list, twice to make sure. Then I click on “Mum,” and a number comes up.

A wave of relief crashes over me.

Now I know, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that Mum is alive.

And she’s trying to tell me something.

Since the crash, somebody entered those names and numbers. Obvs, it wasn’t me. I walk to the foot of the bed again, and sit on the cold floor.

“Mum put these numbers in.”

Alice curls her lip in confusion. “I thought you said she was dead?”

“I think Martha lied to me.”

I’m checking out that list. Mum, yeah, Smitty, fine. But the other two? Marigold is not known for her conversational skills. She’s my grandmother’s grumpy cat, who hates me so much that last time I stayed there she left a dirty protest in my bed.

As for Poffit … well, that’s the one that seals the deal. And the most
humiliating of the lot. Poffit is the name of the random bit o’ blankie I used to toddle around with, Linus-stylee, until Mum made me go cold turkey from it when I started school. I’ll admit I dug it out again at age nine, when we moved to the States. It was the only way I could sleep, early on.

So unless someone has managed to tap into my memories — and that’s a pretty big stretch, even considering current developments — only Mum could have put all this embarrassing stuff in my contacts.

“Why would she give you fake friends?” Alice sits down beside me and squints at the phone.

I look at the phone again, willing it to give away its secrets.

“My mother does nothing without a plan. It must mean something.” I open up the “Marigold” entry, and sure enough, there’s a number: 3463764889.

“O-kaay,” Alice says. “That doesn’t even look like a proper phone number.”

I hit
SEND
. I know there’s no signal, but maybe this is like one of those urban legend distress numbers that work anyway.

Nothing doing. The call fails to connect.

I scroll down to the next entry, “Mum.” Her number is 5555006005959.

“This one’s even longer. Ridiculously long,” I mutter.

I check out the entries for my kiddie comfort blanket and Smitty.

86337274343.

55461760328189.

“Weird,” says Alice, leaning in. “Is it like code or something?”

I fling my head back and hit it on the bed.
Oh bloody hell, Mother
.

“That would be just her frickin’ style.”

I go back to the first number again. Jeez, are we talking 1 = A or something, here? I mean, that would be too damn obvious, but anything
more sophisticated and I’m never going to work it out, especially with this cotton ball stuffing I currently have in my head. I can barely remember the alphabet.

All righty, so …

“Find a pen, some paper.”

Alice rolls her eyes but gets something.

3463764889 would be … “Write the letters down as I say them.” I concentrate hard. “C, D, F, C … nah, this is way wrong. No words start like that!” Besides, there are no ones or twos in this one, so that would mean she hasn’t used anything beyond the ninth letter in the alphabet.

My head hurts.

“Come on, think!” I run my thumb over the keypad on the phone and beg it to give me the answer. And then it does. “It’s a text message.”

Alice crinkles her nose. “How?”

“My phone is old school. No QWERTY going on here, just a regular number pad, with the numbers corresponding to different letters, like on a landline phone.” I feel a rush of blood to my head and search clunkily through the phone’s screens until I can select the option to send a text. “If I’m right … we should type in the number as if it was a text message, and letters will appear.”

Alice’s eyebrows are causing major furrows on her pretty little face. “Do you have a fever?”

“No — I’m serious — watch this.” I type the numbers in.

“Oh, yeah. Totally clear now,” Alice snarks.

My hands are shaking. “We are not done yet …”

The phone beeps at me, and I nearly leap a foot into the air.
LOW BATTERY
flashes on the screen.

“No!” I cry. “Don’t die now!”

“Get on with it, then!” Alice says.

“I am.” I fumble with the phone, nearly dropping it, quickly scrolling until I find what I need. I choose
PREDICTIVE TEXT
from the menu and type in the number.

My heart jumps into my throat.
Smitt
. That is no accident. I look at the phone keypad again.

“Fines-mitt-wuh?” Alice says.

W
is on the same key as
Y
.
Smitty
… my thumb traces over the keys … of course,
E
is on the same key as
D
. I make the substitutions, and I geddit.

“Findsmitty,” I shout, standing up and holding out the phone for Alice to see. “Find Smitty!”

She does not share my joy. “Couldn’t your mum have just left an actual message? Like a normal person? Oh no — I forgot. She’s related to you. You don’t do normal.”

“This
is
a message, Blondie! My mother’s still alive, and she wants us to find Smitty.”

“Are you sure?” Alice snorts. “Why would she care about him? Did she hit her head or something?”

“Look, it makes total sense.” I stamp, impatient. “He’s the only source of the Osiris antidote they were working on. Maybe he’s the only hope for stopping the zombie apocalypse. And if he’s gone missing, I’m guessing
that just about every man and his dog are looking for him around about now.”

“And us, too?” Alice groans. “Honestly, why does everything have to revolve around that stupid boy?” She shakes her head. “Like he’s worth it.” She looks at me. “Maybe you think he
is
worth it?”

I try to keep a straight face while I think of the snarkiest put-down. Unluckily, I fail.

Alice stands and walks over to me. “So where is he?”

I look at the phone again. “The other numbers — we decode them, they’ll tell us!”

The
LOW BATTERY
screen flashes again, making a more insistent beep this time. Rats.

“The other numbers are going to have to wait. Not much we can do about finding Smitty until we find a way out of this room, anyway.” I switch the phone off, and shove it down into my boot.

“That vent thing.” Alice looks up. “There’s a way out?”

I think about the right turn I didn’t take. “There might be.”

She sighs. “Vent it is, then.”

I busy myself with trying to make a tower out of the cabinet and the chair, so that we can reach the vent, while Alice makes a big deal out of packing a small bag with heaven knows what.

“Hey,” I call to her. “Pitch me that sheet, huh?”

“My covers?” She crinkles her nose as she picks up the bedsheet. “Why do you want them?”