Flesh of the Zombie (4 page)

“Before I died,” finished the zombie. He shook his head. “I woke up inside a coffin, unable to think clearly. The wood was rotten, so I broke through and followed the others up to the surface.”

“There’s a letter ‘T’ on your jacket,” said Cleo, pointing to the embroidered symbol. “Maybe your name starts with a ‘T’?”

“I don’t know,” said the young zombie sadly. He reached out and clutched Cleo’s hand. “I’m so scared!”

“Of the other zombies?”

The creature nodded. “They all want to tear people apart and eat their brains. I just want to know who I am. I want to remember.”

“I could try and help you remember,” suggested Cleo.

The zombie looked at her in surprise. “You’d do that?”

“Well, you did save me from being hugged to death,” laughed Cleo. “And don’t worry about your name,” she added, pointing to the zombie’s jacket again. “I can call you ‘Tee’ until we find out what it really is.”

“You’re kind,” Tee said, his green face brightening. “It’s been a long time since I met anyone who was kind to me.”

Cleo smiled. “I know what it’s like to lose your—”

Four hands suddenly reached into the hole and grabbed Cleo, hauling her out of the tunnel. “We can’t leave you alone for two minutes, can we,” said Luke.

“That’s the last you’ll see of
that
diseased monster,” laughed Resus, kicking a mound of dirt into the hole and collapsing the tunnel over Tee.

The zombie stretched his hand towards Cleo. “Please …” he begged as the soil covered his terrified face and he was lost from view.

“No …” shouted Cleo. “Stop!” She pulled free of Luke’s grip and dropped to her knees, digging frantically with her hands.

“You don’t have to prove anything by going back down there,” said Luke.

“He saved me!” snapped Cleo.

“Yes,” smirked Resus. “I suppose I did.”

“Not
you,”
roared Cleo. “That zombie! One of the bigger ones grabbed me, and the one in the tunnel saved me from him!”

“One zombie saved you from another zombie?” asked Luke. “He probably just wanted your brain for himself.”

“He wanted nothing of the sort,” shouted Cleo. “He wanted my help.”

“He wants your lungs for lunch, more like,” said Resus.

“He’s not like the others,” insisted Cleo. “He’s
lost and he’s frightened! Now, help me get him out of this hole.”

Reluctantly, Resus dropped to the ground and joined in with the digging. Luke grabbed a nearby garden rake and stood guard, knocking any curious zombies to one side. After a few minutes, the tunnel became visible. Cleo jumped down into it and peered through the darkness.

Tee was gone.

Resus hurried
after Cleo as she stormed through the hedge into the next garden. “I’m sorry,” he said. “We didn’t know that zombie was trying to help you.”

“You just can’t stand that someone my own age wanted to talk to me, can you!” exclaimed Cleo.

“Your own age?” scoffed Resus. “Unless he was entombed in a pyramid around six thousand years ago, I doubt he’s anywhere near your age.”

“You’re just jealous because he’s a
real
zombie,” said Cleo.

“What do you mean by that?” demanded Resus, although he knew exactly what Cleo was referring to. He was something of a genetic oddity in his family: a normal child born to vampire parents. He hated the taste of blood, could stay outside in the daylight and was reduced to wearing clip-on fangs.

Cleo spun and pushed her face closer to Resus’s. “Let’s just say
he
doesn’t feel the need to dye his hair black.”

“That’s not fair!” protested Resus. “I only use the stuff so I won’t be an embarrassment to my family.”

“Who says that hair dye stops that from happening?”

“Sorry to break up this touching moment,” said Luke as they reached the last garden, leading back into the square, “but could we please save it for when we’re not overrun with zombies?”

The trio soon found themselves next to the vast stage the overall-clad zombies had been building.

“Excuse me,” Cleo asked the nearest one. “We’re looking for Fool Spec—”

She jumped as the phantom materialized in front of her.

“Well, looky here,” smiled the ghost, running
a hand through his wildly back-combed hair. “We got ourselves some flesh-metal music fans!”

“Actually, Mr Spectre,” said Resus, “we know you’re—”

“President of Moantown Records!” interrupted the spirit, pressing a translucent business card into Resus’s palm. “And, of course, the man who brought Deadstock to Scream Street.”

“This is your doing?” asked Luke. “My parents are out of their minds!”

“So they should be,” beamed Spectre. “It’s not every day a top zombie band like Brain Drain plays in your own backyard.”

“You’re missing the point,” said Resus. “We’re looking for one zombie in particular …”

“As am I!” interrupted a female voice. Luke looked up to see Eefa Everwell, the witch who ran Scream Street’s general store, pushing her way through the crowds. The witch’s enchantment charm caused every zombie she passed to stop and stare at her utter beauty.

“Everwell’s Emporium has been broken into,” she announced.

“What makes you think it was one of the zombies?” asked Fool Spectre.

“I’d popped home for a moment,” said Eefa, producing a crystal ball from beneath her robes, “but my security spell caught the culprit red-handed!” An image began to glow inside the glass sphere. Cleo nudged Luke to stop him gaping at the witch’s beauty, and they all crowded around to watch.

Inside the globe, a tall zombie with lank ginger hair smashed into the emporium through the door from the stockroom and proceeded to demolish the shop. He knocked over shelves, smashed display stands and tore up paperwork.

“Did he take much?” Cleo asked the witch.

“Just a few basic spell ingredients, from what I can tell,” replied Eefa. “But everything’s in such a mess, I don’t really know what’s there and what isn’t.” She rounded on the president of Moantown Records. “I kept the emporium open today for Deadstock,” said Eefa. “Because you, Fool, assured me there would be no trouble!”

“Now, hold on a minute,” protested the phantom. “I cannot be held responsible for the actions of every zombie who’s come to see their favourite band.”

“Perhaps not,” said Eefa, “but you
can
reimburse me for the damage.”

“Reimburse you?” barked Spectre.

“Excuse me, Mr Spectre,” said Luke. “I know this isn’t the best time, but I need to ask you—”

“For some backstage passes, I know,” interjected the ghost, pulling three laminated cards from his clipboard. “There you go, kids — now run along and let Miss Everwell and I sort out this problem.”

Luke found a pass thrust at him and a hand the size of a door at his back, pushing him towards a black silk tent set up at the back of the stage.

“No,” he objected, “you don’t understand …”

“Forget it,” said Resus. “You’ve got more chance of escaping from the Underlands than you have of getting a straight answer there!”

“Sir Otto mentioned the Underlands earlier,” said Luke. “What are they?”

Cleo shivered. “Something not to be talked about, if you ask me.”

“The Underlands is another realm,” explained Resus. “A terrifying place that saps your spirit and keeps you in a constant state of doom and despair.”

“Sounds like a great place for a holiday!”

“Don’t believe it,” said Resus, missing Luke’s joke. “The Underlands is where G.H.O.U.L. sends all the really nasty beings — creatures that can’t be trusted to live among the likes of us without causing carnage.”

“I wouldn’t have thought Scream Street had that many bad characters to begin with,” commented Luke.

“They come from G.H.O.U.L. communities all over the world,” explained Resus.

Luke looked amazed. “You mean there are other places like Scream Street?”

“In just about every country,” said Cleo. “My dad and I lived in a town in Australia before we were moved here.”

“And
we
were supposed to be performing in Scandinavia today,” snarled a voice. “Not this provincial dump!”

Luke, Resus and Cleo turned towards the voice, which had come from the black tent. A green face wearing small black sunglasses peered through a gap in the material.

“Are you talking to us?” asked Resus, stepping towards the tent.

“Stay right where you are,” ordered the face.

“It’s OK,” said Cleo. “We’re friends of Mr Spectre’s. He gave us backstage passes.”

“I don’t care if he gave you Frankenstein’s phone number,” growled the figure. “I told you to stay back!”

“How dare—” began Resus.

Luke nudged his friend in the ribs. “Are you with the band?” he asked.

The figure stepped out from the confines of the tent. He was tall and slim, with tattoos covering almost every inch of his green skin. Luke
was amazed to see that the zombie wasn’t wearing sunglasses after all — his eyes were just jet black.

“I’m not
with
the band,” snarled the figure. “I
am
the band!”

“But Doug told us that Brain Drain had four members,” said Cleo.

The zombie smoothed back his slicked black hair. “Even a legend like Vein needs musicians behind him.”

“You’re
Vein?” asked Resus. “You’re the lead singer!”

“You catch on quick,” drawled the slim zombie, “for a vampire …”

“You take that back!” protested Resus. “Or I’ll—”

Luke interrupted. “Did you say you were supposed to be performing in Scandinavia today?”

“Aren’t
you
clever for remembering.”

“Deadstock wasn’t supposed to be in Scream Street, then?” asked Cleo, trying her best to ignore the singer’s sarcasm.

“The venue was changed at the last minute due to an outbreak of hoof-and-mouth disease among the Swedish demons,” grumbled Vein.
“Next thing I know, G.H.O.U.L.’s opened a Hex Hatch and we’re here.”

Cleo shrugged. “So, what’s the problem?”

“I wouldn’t choose to play hide-and-seek in a dump like this, let alone a rock concert.”

“Do you mind?” snapped Resus. “This is our home.”

Vein chuckled nastily. “It suits you.”

Luke struggled to hold Resus back. “How did the zombies know?”