15 STAYING HUMAN
The main road into St. Enoch’s blocked with abandoned cars, so we have to make a detour through a housing scheme. Usually there’d be kids spilling out onto the road, having snowball fights and building snowmen, pulling sleds made out of bread crates, and making slides by packing the snow with their shoes until it got all slippery and shiny, but today there’s no sign of anyone. Instead, we drift through empty streets where much of the snow is undisturbed.
The multi-stories stand like tombstones, and I can’t help but think that’s what they are, giant grave markers to those who haven’t survived.
We’re ploughing through snow on one street when I spot a wee zombie girl with pigtails and unmistakable dead eyes. There’s a ring of blood around her mouth that looks sticky, and her frilly pink dress is torn and splattered with blood. She can’t be more than four years old. Two pre-teens with scrunched up faces, wearing tracksuits and baseball caps, have her doll, and they’re circling her like vultures, throwing it to each other and goading her with taunts of “Come and get it.”
I know if she does go after the doll, they’ll play a cruel game of piggy in the middle or worse, hit her or beat her. The scumbags are bullying her, and I hate bullies.
She’s stumbling around as she swipes at them with her hands, fingers curled into claws, and although I know she’s dangerous, I want to do something to help her. I can’t allow her to bite those boys, whether they’re bullies or not. They might be nasty brats, but they’re survivors who could lead us to others.
“Stop the car,” I yell.
Even as I say it I don’t know what I’ll do once I get out.
Mustafa roars, “You have got to be kidding.”
Scott puts a hand on my arm. “You know she’s one of them.”
As if that makes a difference. She’s a child, all alone with nobody to care for her. If she was my kid, I wouldn’t want someone to just leave her to deal with those bullies. “I can’t just do nothing.”
“She’s right,” says Doyle. “We should stop. Those boys might lead us to other survivors.”
Mustafa stabs him with a dagger stare.
Doyle carries on: “Those kids might be wee bastards but they’re not dead bastards, but they will be if we just leave them here.” He stops the Rover.
Mustafa grumbles, “So, we’re taking in bloody strays now?”
If I wasn’t so desperate to get out the car I’d have belted him one. How can he be so heartless?
There’s a click as Doyle releases the doors child-proof locks and tells me, “Be quick about it.” He makes no move to come with me.
I clamber over Scott to get out of the car.
“You know this is crazy, right?” he tells me as he comes after me. “What do you think you’re going to do, Emma? Rescue her and take her with us?”
“No,” I snap. “I’m going to talk to those boys.”
Scott sucks air in through his teeth. “It’s dangerous, Emma. That girl’s mother could be nearby, and there could be others around, ready to tear into you like a chew toy.”
I know he’s talking sense, but I can’t just ignore what’s happening. “Hey, boys.”
They catch sight of us, drop the doll, and run. It lands with a soft thump in the snow.
“Wait. We need to speak to you.” I’m yelling, but they’re too busy scarpering off.
“Great,” Scott says. “Now can we get back in the car?”
There’s an edge to his voice I’m not used to. Right now he’s angry with me, maybe even a little afraid for me. I bend down to pick up the doll and offer it to the little girl.
She hisses and spits.
She’s wearing one of those name badges they put on kids at nursery school. “Abigail,” I say softly as she glowers at me through animalistic eyes. I’m conscious of the quiver in my voice in spite of my attempt to keep my tone level. “Here’s your dolly.”
I hold it closer for her to take, and that’s when her jaws snap open, exposing teeth dripping with rancid saliva. She throws herself at me like a rabid dog, jaws snapping, drool mixed with blood pooling at her chin.
I manage to dodge her before she can sink her teeth into my arm, but she keeps coming at me. I jam the doll into her mouth and stagger backward.
“Are you done now?” Scott asks. “Can we go now?”
“In a minute.” It’s clear to me that even a small zombie is a deadly zombie. I sprint towards the car and wonder how many other survivors might cross her path and think she’s harmless. How many of them will she bite, infect, or even eat? Someone has to stop her now; to put her out of her misery.
The door’s still hanging open, and Scott’s two steps behind me. I reach in over the back seat and grab Mustafa’s sword.
“Hey. Where are you going with that?” he yells.
I ignore him and stride back over to the girl. I smash my foot into her chest and she falls. While she’s on the ground, I raise the sword and slam it into her skull, straight across the eyes. It makes a crack and then a gooshing sound. Her back arches, her little legs tremble, and then she falls still. I struggle to hold back my tears, rationalising that what I just did was a mercy killing; one that saved others. And saved her from being a monster.
I withdraw the sword from her skull and wipe the blood off in the snow. The doll lies beside her, right where it belongs.
Everyone’s eyes are on me as I get in the car and toss the sword behind the seat. Not even Mustafa glaring at me like I’m the devil himself can provoke a reaction from me.
I’ve lost something I fear I won’t ever get back: my humanity. Staying human seems impossible.
But I did what I had to.
16 THERE’S SOMEBODY AT THE DOOR
Kenny was right about the shopping centre being a magnet for zombies. Any hopes we had that we’d have an easy in and out are obliterated the moment we turn the corner and see the seething mass of inhumanity milling about the area like they’ve all been lobotomised.
Mustafa sums up our mood when he says, “Shit.”
One or two, even half a dozen we could handle, but hundreds? No chance. There was such a thing as too much, and this is it. An army of William Wallaces couldn’t get past this lot to the front door.
“We go to plan B,” Doyle announces, which surprises me because I didn’t know we had a plan B. “We go in through the employees’ car park.”
He says it as if it’s no big deal to drive into a large, confined, and probably dark place, swarming with dead bastards. Man's deluded.
Mustafa scowls. “I suppose you have a key to get in there.”
No reaction from Doyle.
Mustafa shakes his head. “Fuck sake. You staked out this place already. Were you going to bomb a shopping centre full of people, families, women and children? What's wrong with you?”
Doyle tuts. “Actually, no. I was gonnae bomb the airport. Someone else was gonnae bomb this place, but they backed out at the last moment. Probably got eaten. A double bombing, one a diversion for the other. Twice the hysteria.”
“You really are a piece of shit,” snarled Mustafa. For once, I agreed with him.
With a tyre-screeching manoeuvre that made my bones jangle, Doyle swung the Rover around and headed for the multi-storey car park.
The entrance doors to the garage are closed, and three stragglers are shuffling along, groaning the way zombies do.
Doyle stops the car. “I’ll deal with them.” He calmly puts his hand down into the seat pocket and comes out with a gun.
“What the hell?” Mustafa scoots up against his door like he thinks that can get him further away from Doyle, but he keeps his eyes trained on the gun.
The gun was no surprise to Scott and me. We’d already seen it when he'd rescued us.
Doyle opens the door, leaps out, and using a shooter’s stance he probably learned in a terrorist training camp, he pumps a bullet into each shuffler’s brain. The last of them, a ginger haired guy in a security guard uniform, puts a hand to the gaping hole in his head as though he’s trying stop his brain matter gushing out. A gurgle erupts from his throat, and black stuff the consistency of phlegm shoots out his mouth like projectile vomit. He drops in a heap on the concrete with his other dead bastard buddies, face down.
Doyle gets back in the car. “Now they won’t be any bother when we come out.” He stashes the gun and drives up to the door, then hangs out the window and holds a pass key up to the panel.
There’s a shrill beep followed by a clunk, and the shutter starts its slow ascent.
“This place still has power?” Kenny says.
“Backup generator,” Doyle puts his foot down. The Rover shoots through the entrance. “Comes on automatically when the electricity grid fails.”
I’m relieved to find the lights are still on inside. Doyle lowers the door, and it clatters down behind us.
Mustafa says, “Oh fuck.”
I jump.
Two pitiful figures are ambling towards us, a male and a female. The man’s wearing a Rangers football shirt and joggy bottoms that hang down from the waist because they’re untied. One of his ears has been ripped off, and where a hand should be, there’s a bloody exposed stump. The bottom of one leg has been cut away to accommodate the huge plaster cast that goes all the way from his ankle up to his knee. He’s walking unaided, but he must have had crutches at one stage.
His female companion’s in worse condition than him. Her nurse’s uniform is torn open at the chest, both her breasts are gone, and all that remains are seeping holes between her ribs. Her eyes are missing, leaving blood-encrusted hollows. Her head’s been bashed in at one side, but her brain must somehow be intact because she’s still moving.
Before anyone can say a word, Doyle revs up the engine and slams into the pair. They’re dragged under the wheels, and I hear crunching as the Range Rover runs over them. A chilling sound but rewarding at the same time.
Doyle carries on driving, zipping all the way up to the very top level of the car park while we scan the area for any more of those rotters.
As we drive up to the door that leads to the inside of the shopping centre, we pass a man wearing dark glasses, crawling along the floor on his hands and knees because the rest of his legs are gone. A human hand is locked in his jaws. He reminds me of a dog gnawing on a bone.
He poses no threat to us, so we leave him to his misery.
Apart from birds squabbling over a corpse, there’s nothing alive on the top floor, and I’m grateful.
Our senses are on hyper-alert as we approach the door that leads out into the main shopping centre. We’re prepared for trouble. We have our weapons at the ready, Mustafa his sword, Doyle his gun. Kenny has a screwdriver.
He unlocks the door and pushes it open. We collectively take a deep breath and step inside.
17 RULE CHANGERS
Nothing attacks us.
Adjusting to the shopping centre’s bright lighting makes my eyes sting. That is until I see what lies ahead of us. Then I’m as happy as a kid on Christmas morning. There’s an Aladdin’s cave of stores crammed full of all kinds of goodies: food, gadgets, toys, clothes, camping equipment, and sporting goods that’ll make good weapons. I ignore the luxury shoe store selling Michael Jackson tribute trainers to ogle the outdoor gear.
And the best thing of all is it’s all ours for the taking.
Gripping Scott’s hand, I suppress the urge to turn into an excited schoolgirl and run around squealing.
“Brilliant,” Mustafa says with an uncharacteristic jolly grin.
Doyle bursts our happy bubble by reminding us we need to make sure the area’s secure, but Kenny doesn’t hear because he’s sprinted down to gawp at the store with a life-sized remote control Dalek from Dr Who in the window. His childish enthusiasm is infectious, and I can’t help but run over to join him. He’s all smiles, no sign of the zombie slayer any more; welcome to Kenny the big kid, eyes glistening behind his glasses.
We go crazy amongst the stores, grabbing all the stuff we can and stacking it all into shopping carts. The days of feeling as if we’re stealing are long gone. We tell ourselves everything will just sit there and rot away if we don’t take it, because it’s not like anybody else is going to use it. People would want us to have it.
I’m so preoccupied with picking out a new baseball bat that I almost don’t notice Scott motioning towards the chemist. I’m puzzled as to why he wants me to go there. Then I get this sinking feeling in my gut. How could I possibly have forgotten about our little accident?
Mustafa’s voice comes from behind me. “Why’s he so keen on the chemist?”
His voice makes me jump. I need to think fast. “We need some medical supplies. We might not get another chance to grab any.”
The words sound hollow to my ears, but Mustafa must believe me because he goes back to inspecting an assortment of golf clubs, probably to use as brain bashers.
Scott’s already inside the chemist by the time I get there, and he’s standing in an aisle, holding a small packet out for me to see. I know what it is. I have an unexpected reaction, not relief that he’s managed to get hold of the morning after pill in all this chaos, but anger. All I can think is he wants to kill our baby, which is sheer bloody craziness on my part, because I don’t even know if there is a baby. I might not even be pregnant. Condoms split all the time; not everyone gets pregnant.
Scott’s watching me with concern, no doubt trying to fathom what I’m thinking and not wanting to say the wrong thing, but he tries anyway. “I thought you wanted this, Emma,” he finally says. “You don’t look too happy.”
I bite my lip and say nothing but I owe him an explanation. “I did, but that was before this all happened and the world went to shit. I thought we could wait to have kids for when you got promoted and we had more money coming in. But now...” I’ve got to stop talking because the words are choking up in my throat.
“Take a deep breath,” Scott says, standing behind me now, rubbing my back, my neck.
My heart is hammering away.
When I can talk again, the words coming from my mouth sound like dialogue from a daytime soap, but I mean every word. “If I am pregnant, Scott, this might be the one chance we get to have a baby. Who knows what the future holds for us? Will I even live long enough to have a child? I don’t know. Will what’s happening make people infertile? I honestly don’t know.”
I sit down on a chair in the prescription waiting area, hoping rest will help to slow the pounding of my heart. “And I wonder if we should, if we even have the right to bring a baby into this crazy world. How will we protect it? Will he or she be healthy? What do we do if the baby gets ill? What if...”
So many thoughts are whizzing though my mind that I’m glad when Scott interrupts me by placing a finger on my lips.
“I’ve been sure of two things in my life,” he says. “That I wanted to be a teacher and I wanted to spend my life with you.” He flashes me a grin. “And have kids, raise a family, Emma.”
I’m fighting back tears. “Me too, Scott.”
“But the rules have changed since then. I don’t think this is the right time.”
“I’m afraid too, but it’s our baby we’re talking about. The only baby we might be able to have. Taking these pills will be like killing our own child before it even has a chance.”
He gazes upwards as if looking for divine inspiration.
I know that by having a baby we could be condemning an innocent child to a lifetime of constant fear, of running until every last one of the dead bastards are gone...or worse...until every last human is dead.
And what if we died and left that baby behind? Who would care for them? Who would protect them from ending up just another zombie meal?
The thought of those monsters devouring my baby makes me shiver.
“You could take a pregnancy test,” Scott says. “Then we’ll know for sure.”
Before I can tell him it’s too soon, he’s gone back to the shelves, scouring them for a kit. When he comes back empty handed, I don’t know if its relief or frustration I see on his face; maybe a mixture of both.
“It’s too soon for those testing kits to tell, anyway.” He looks at me for confirmation.
I nod. “Okay,” I say. “Now what do we do?”
He flops down on the chair next to me. “We have a decision to make here, Emma, but you’re the person it’s going to affect the most. You should decide whether or not to take that pill. I’ll stand by whatever you decide.” He brushes away a single tear. “You’re the one who’s got to carry a baby for nine months, to give birth to it without medical care. Hell, you could die...” He breaks off and covers his face with his hands. “Shit, thinking about this is frying my brain.”
I put my hand up to his head. “I don’t want to take the pill. If I don’t take it, it’s up to fate to decide. I might not even be pregnant.”
Scott’s face relaxes and he kisses me on the forehead. “I wonder if she’ll have any little friends to play with.”
I smile. “She?”
“I always thought our first child would be a wee girl.”
A picture of a girl with curly blonde hair like Scott's comes into my head, and I imagine I’m holding her and inhaling that sweet baby smell. “Me too.”
He kisses me on the cheek. “We’re doing the right thing you know.”
“I know.”
But I worry I’ll come to regret this decision someday.