26 GUESS WHO’S COMING TO DINNER?
Storming over, I shoved my face in Scott’s. “Where? Where’s the bite mark?”
“This needs to be done.” Doyle used the same tone he used to tell us he was going to blow himself up at the airport, like it’s just one of those things, like popping out to the corner shop to get milk.
This can’t be happening.
There wasn’t so as much as a bead of sweat on Doyle’s forehead. He was resigned to dying.
“Let’s look at the tooth marks,” I demanded.
“I don’t want to be a dead bastard,” said Doyle.
I told him, “Get up.” I knew Kenny and Mustafa were standing beside me, looking as frightened as I felt. “Show me where you were bitten.”
Scott's face was soaked in sweat, “We don’t have much time, Emma.”
Fantastic. I’m in the company of idiots who’d bludgeon their pal to death just because they thought he’d been bitten. It hadn't entered their heads to check.
I turned to Mustafa. “Get your sword ready. If Doyle starts drooling and hissing, take his head off.”
That elicited a smile out of him.
Doyle stood up and showed me his shoulder. There’s a tear on his jacket that goes right through to the skin, and it’s bleeding. Not a lot, but enough to cause alarm. It didn’t look like a bite mark; more like a straight slash. I could see bits of broken glass lying about and scuff marks in the snow, so it was conceivable that he was cut while wrestling zombies on the ground.
“Take off your jacket,” I told him. “I want to examine the wound.”
“But it’s freezing out here.”
Fuck sake. Is he for real? Does he want to die?
Through gritted teeth, I said, “And that’s somehow worse than an axe blade through your neck?”
My words sickened me. I didn't want to have to kill him. Killing those monsters was one thing but one of us, that was unthinkable.
It took Doyle a few minutes to remove the backpack and utility belt, carefully handling the grenades, and then his jacket and shirt and thermals. We all watched anxiously, even Mustafa who hated the guy. If they were like me, their heads would be pounding and their lips dry.
The freezing air dimpled Doyle's skin. He hugged himself and bended his shoulder towards me.
Taking a deep breath, I inspected the wound. I didn’t see any tooth marks. “It’s a scrape,” I announced, triumph in my words.
The strain on Scott's face melted. My heart no longer thundered away. Mustafa’s shoulders relaxed. Kenny and Scott knocked fists.
Doyle exhaled. “I thought those fuckers got me.”
"But, they didn't," I said, smile playing on my lips.
Mustafa scowled. “Pity, I'd have loved to have chopped you into wee pieces.”
Doyle grinned. “In yir dreams, mate.”
“Aye,” Mustafa said with an equally broad grin. “It’s my favourite dream.”
“Please, please.” I broke up their little discussion. “Can we have one rule from now on?” I needed to say this because we could end up killing each other for nothing. “For God’s sake, check if someone’s been bitten before you try and off them, you bunch of numpties.”
Holding his breath, Scott’s cheeks bulged. Out of everybody here, including me, he’s the one person I expected to be the most rational. He exhaled. “I ballsed up.”
“You weren’t really going to cut his head off,” I told him, trying to hide the leaden quality to my words.
“He said he was bitten. I took him at his word. He’s the clown.”
Doyle’s scrambling into his jacket. “I owe you my life, Emma.”
“Yeah, don’t you all.”
Darkness had begun to fall and the wind had picked up, so sailing over to the island would have been too dangerous that night. Instead, we kipped down on a fancy boat we found at the pier. There was enough room below deck for all of us, although we slept in shifts.
Before we'd turned in, Doyle found a small alcohol gas stove that he used to heat up canned baked beans he had in his backpack. We scoffed them down like they were an all you can eat buffet.
Kenny found more tinned grub stashed on the boat along with one of those pop up tents, some medical supplies, sleeping bags, and two child-sized lifejackets. Whatever happened to the family who was preparing to flee in this boat, we’d never know, but we didn’t speculate about it. We just gladly accepted the gifts they’d left behind.
None of us got much sleep that night. Every creak of the boat had us up and grabbing for our weapons, convinced someone was coming.
As soon as it was light, we set sail.
The journey over to the Isle of Cumbrae took us twenty minutes, but it felt much longer. Maybe because we were dreading what we'd find. Without coming out and saying it, we'd pinned our hopes on the island being our safe haven; it made sense to stay away from large populations. But we’d no way of knowing if the island was safe until we got there.
As we neared shore, it was business as usual for the grey seals who performed acrobatics in the water, and for a moment, we whooped and cheered at the display, until Kenny yelped and pointed to an object in the water.
There was a floating lifejacket and it wasn’t until the head bobbed above the water that I realised it was a bloated body. When this person died, he was no longer human. I could tell by the way someone had smashed its skull in.
Doyle scratched his head. “Fish usually eat any soft tissue drifting around,” he announced, as if that should mean something to us.
Kenny chipped in. “Maybe they don’t like zombie meat.”
“What’s it doing out here?” Doyle asked.
“Do you think these fuckers can swim?” Mustafa directed his question at Kenny. All questions of that nature were levelled at Kenny. Without his bagpipes brainwave, we’d have been ready meals for the zombies back at the shopping centre. Kenny knows his stuff. He’s the man.
“Nah, zombies can’t swim,” Kenny said it with an expression that didn’t quite convince. If he gave any other answer, he probably figures we’ll start seeing swimmers everywhere, their decaying hands reaching out of the water to grab us, to drag us under, and eat us. He’s a smart cookie that Kenny.
As we sailed closer to shore, we see smoke from some of the houses, and our hopes soar. Dead bastards didn’t light fires; if they did we were screwed because that would have meant the dead bastards had evolved.
We anchored the boat in the water away from the beach so we were prepared for a speedy getaway and waded the rest of the way to shore, carrying our backpacks on our heads. We didn’t have far to go as the only town on the island, Millport, was five minutes from the shore.
Scott was talking about how desperate he was to see his parents and sister, and I wanted to believe they were there on the island waiting for him. Hope’s the wee thread we needed to keep on pulling to keep us alive. But I was prepared for the worst.
So far, that’s all we’d seen; the worst of the worst.
On the way to Scott’s house, the only living thing we encountered was a black cat reclining lazily on a wall, not caring that the same humans who fed and cared for him and his pals were on the brink of extinction.
We didn’t see any bodies or bloodstains on the road. I was expecting bodies. Has the island avoided the zombie plague? If it had, we could be standing on what’s left of plague-free Scotland.
When we reached the cottage where Scott’s family lived, without thinking, Scott turned the handle of the front door, expecting it to be open as always, but it was locked. A man shouted, “I’ve got a weapon. Who are you?”
The door opened and Scott’s dad was clutching a poker like a spear he was ready to plunge it into an intruder’s brain.
Scott’s face relaxed. “Hey. It’s me, Dad. Are you all right?”
His dad dropped the poker and locked Scott in a bear hug. “It’s great to see you, son.”
His mum embraced me. “Emma, I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Me too.”
“Come in, come in, please. Make yourselves at home.”
Scott’s parents were an odd couple. His mother, Mary, stood at about five-foot tall in her stocking soles and must have weighed about four stone, whereas his dad, William, was a bear of a man with a bushy beard several birds could nest in and a quick smile that brightened what would otherwise be a severe face.
“Where’s Lindsay?” Scott asked.
Mary’s face darkened. “She was at school in Largs when this all happened.”
Scott sunk down into the couch, his face milky pale. “Oh no, Mum.”
Nobody speaks. What could we say? Loss is a slab of concrete smacking us in our faces. Sympathy means nothing at all when it feels as though your insides have been scraped out, and your heart and soul have been given a right good kicking.
Lindsay was a nice girl with an infectious giggle that made me feel good every time she laughed. She wanted to be a vet or a writer and loved the latest boy bands and nice shoes.
“You must have come via Largs, is that right?” William asked his eyes filled with hope. “How bad is it over there?”
Scott met William’s gaze. “It’s bad, Dad, like a ghost town in fact. I...”
He didn’t finish his sentence and he didn’t have to. His parents already knew.
Mary collapsed into her husband’s outstretched arms. “Oh my God, our wee girl’s never coming home.”
William held her. “We hoped she’d turn up, but she’s really gone.”
I don’t have the heart to tell them that there were worse things than her being gone.
“So, how have things been here on the island?” Scott asked. He gripped my hand so tightly I could tell he was trying not to cry.
William scratched his beard. “Reckon we’ve escaped the worst of it thanks to the skipper of the ferry who scuttled his ship. Terrible business.” His eyes stared off into the distance as if he could see the ship sinking.
“All aboard dead bar one. Ted Hunter managed to swim to shore. He said it was pure mayhem. Blood everywhere and people screaming. He spoke of unspeakable things, people attacking and eating each other. We’d all be gonners if it weren’t for the skipper. A fine man. A brave man. Did what had to be done to stop those things from getting ashore.”
I knew the feeling. The little zombie girl taught me that lesson.
“So who are your friends?” Mary asked Scott as if trying to change the subject.
“Sorry,” Scott said. “This is Kenny.” He nodded at Kenny who stood up and put out his hand for Scott’s parents to shake. “He knows more than the rest of us about dealing with these things. He saved our lives using bagpipes. Can you believe that?”
William shook Kenny’s hand. “Now that’s a story we’d love to hear, son.”
Scott carried on. “And this is Doyle. He comes in handy. Emma and I were being attacked when he saved our lives.”
Of course, Scott didn’t mention the not so small matter of the bomb vest, and I’m glad about that.
“Mustafa’s been a pal of mine for years now. He and his family have the shop on our street...had a shop.”
William shook Mustafa’s hand. “How is your family, son?”
Mustafa doesn’t blink. “All dead.”
Mary reached over and patted him on the shoulder. “I’m sorry to hear that.” Then she turned to me, a sad smile on her face. “Forgive our manners, dear. How is your family, Emma? Are they safe?”
A lump the size of a golf ball formed in my throat. “I haven’t heard anything from Spain, so I don’t know how my parents are. But Fiona...” my voice cracks, “...she died in my arms.”
Scott squeezed my hand as I fought back tears. It was as though I was talking about some movie I’d watched because the story didn’t feel real. It couldn’t be. But it was.
“You must be starving,” Mary said again, changing the subject. She busied herself making hot dogs on the coal fire. My stomach rumbled in anticipation.
Scott watched Mary empty the tin of hot dogs into a saucepan: pink, fat, long and round. They reminded me of Marie’s fingers doing a wee dance on the snow, long after the arm was detached from her torso.
Scott’s mouth was set in a grimace. His eyes flicked to me and his mouth twitched. I could tell he was trying not to be sick, because I’m gagging too.
As we devoured our food, Scott’s mum told us about a mystery on the island. “People are going missing. As far as we know, there are none of those things on the island. Those...?” She looks at us. “What do you call them?”
“Wakers,” I told her. I didn’t want to say dead bastards in front of Scott's parents. “The expert on the telly called them that anyway, because they wake from the dead.”
“My, my,” she breathed. “I suppose that's as good a name as any, dear, but as I was saying, people have vanished around here. First there was John and Ann Brodie, and their daughter Helen.” She turns to Scott. “You remember them? You were in the year above Helen at school.”
Scott nodded.
Mary carried on. “Kylie McIntyre and young Siobhan were next. Old Peggy Marshall was a resident in the care home, and the butcher’s wife and kids, I think they were the first to go missing.”
William rubbed his beard. “I figure they’re offing themselves. Some folk can’t come to terms with this disease, infection, whatever it is. They can’t cope. They know it’s happening elsewhere, and that chances are their friends and family are dead, and it’ll happen to them too.”