Zom-B (10 page)

“It wasn’t much,” I mutter. “The guys weren’t that big.”

“Rubbish,” Kray says. “I saw the one
you tackled outside the shop. He was well over six foot. That knee put him down sweet though.”

Kray’s not the only one living in awe of my trusty right knee. I reckon some of the fools would kneel down and kiss it if I gave them the chance.

The praise goes to my head a bit but my mood doesn’t lift. No matter how many times I’m told that I’m a hero, I can’t forget about Dad, the contempt in his expression, the way he hit Mum and me. If ever there was a time to stand up to him and tell him I’m not a racist, it was then. I could have said that I thought all babies were equal. Attacked him for being so heartless, so inhuman.

Instead I just stood there, head low, saying nothing. As always.

It’s almost a relief to get to class. I can escape from the adulation there. We have biology first. I’m worried that Mr. Burke might make a song and dance about what I did at the museum, but he’s not in today, must be sick. Mrs. Reed takes our class instead.

The morning rolls along drearily. I trudge from one class to the next, ignoring anyone who tries to talk with me about Friday, scribbling during lessons, paying little or no attention to the teachers.

I meet up with some of the gang during the break and I’m delighted when Elephant draws their attention away from me.

“I’m playing soccer at lunch,” he beams. “Saw the doctor on Friday and she gave me the all-clear. Said it’ll probably hurt for a few days, and not to tackle too hard, but I’ve got the green light.”

Elephant’s so excited, you’d swear he was about to play in a cup
final, not in a poxy five-a-side tournament. We slag him a bit but he laughs off our jeers, vowing to score a hat trick and come back bigger and better than ever.

“
Bigger?
” La Lips says, batting her eyelids innocently.

We all laugh, even the normally jealous Copper.

Elephant makes us promise to come and cheer him on. I normally wouldn’t bother with footie at lunch, but to keep Elephant happy, I agree to watch him make a fool of himself.

“Just don’t elbow anybody,” Suze warns him, “or B will go for you.”

Elephant looks blank. He must be the only person not to have heard about the incident on Friday. Luckily, before I’m forced to go through it again for his benefit, the bell rings and it’s back to class.

More pointless lessons, teachers droning on, trying to amuse myself by drawing crude cartoons and coming up with nicknames for the few of my friends who don’t have any. Then lunch.

I head to the gym with Copper, Kray, Suze, La Lips, Ballydefeck and Stagger Lee. We meet Pox, Trev and Linzer there. Elephant’s warming up. Meths is on his team and the two of them hold a hushed conversation, discussing tactics. What a pair of clowns!

Stuttering Stan is the ref. He blows his whistle and the teams take to the pitch. Other kids move out of their way and either line up along the sides to watch or go find somewhere else to hang out.

The game kicks off and Elephant gets stuck straight in. If anyone expected him to take things easy in his first game back, they’re
instantly corrected as he goes into a tackle feetfirst and barges one of the other players over.

Stuttering Stan blows for a free kick and gives Elephant a warning. Elephant rubs his leg and looks worried. As soon as Stuttering Stan’s back is turned, he winks at Meths. I see now what they were cooking up—play the wounded soldier angle, use Stuttering Stan’s sympathy to get away with as many dirty tackles as they can.

“Go on, Elephant!” I roar as he chases the action. “Do him!”

The others cheer along with me. The goalie pulls off a save and launches the ball up the field to Elephant. He turns, shoots and almost scores the goal of his life, but it flies just a few inches over.

We’re having a great time. For once I’m immersed, keen to see who Elephant targets next, if he can cap his comeback with a goal, how much grimacing and sighing Stuttering Stan will stand for before he brandishes a yellow card.

Then Tyler Bayor spoils it all. He comes up to me and gives my sleeve a tug. I glance at him suspiciously. He’s never approached me like this before. I figure I must be in trouble, that he’s delivering a message for someone.

“What do you want?” I snap.

Tyler grins shakily. “I just wanted to say well done for the other day.”

I stare at him incredulously. The others are amazed too. He must have fallen out of bed and hit his head this morning. It’s madness, tagging me like this, acting like we can be friends, like a
compliment from him can make everything right between us. Who the hell does he reckon he is, Nelson bloody Mandela?

“Do you think I give a damn what you think of me?” I snarl.

Tyler’s face creases and he gulps. “No, B, of course not. I just wanted to–”

I poke him in the chest and he takes a quick step back. I follow and the gang closes around me, their focus switching from the game to the new, more highly charged action.

“Who gave you permission to breathe the same air as me?” I sneer, poking Tyler again.

“Why are you doing this?” he whines. “I only wanted to tell you that I thought it was great, the way you saved that kid.”

“I didn’t do it to please the likes of you,” I tell him. “In fact, if I’d known the baby was Indian, I’d have let them take him.”

Snickers and theatrical gasps from the gang. They think I’m joking, saying it to wind Tyler up. They don’t know about what happened at home, how serious this is. If I let Tyler praise me, it’ll be like I’m taking his side against Dad.

“All right,” Tyler sighs. “I’m sorry. I won’t congratulate you again.”

He turns to leave. I grab his arm and swing him back to face me.

“You’re not going anywhere.” I poke his chest a third time. “You started this. Let’s take it all the way.”

Tyler’s eyes fill with panic. I’ve given him a rough ride over the years, but I’ve never gone all out for him. He’s small. I don’t usually pick fights with no-hopers. I go for opponents who stand a chance,
who are worth beating. Tyler isn’t a fighter. He probably thought he’d never get called out by me.

But he rubbed me the wrong way at the wrong time. I know it’s unfair. It’s my dad I should be squaring up to, not a wimp like Tyler. Or, if not Dad, then one of Tyler’s bigger buddies, someone who could give as good as he gets. But I can’t help myself. I’ve been bottling in my anger all weekend. I have to lash out at someone, and Tyler’s placed himself in my line of fire.

“Easy, B,” Trev mutters, seeing something dark flash across my face.

“You want some of this too?” I bark.

He shakes his head and goes quiet.

I focus on Tyler again. I’m snarling like a dog. Tyler looks like he’s about to faint. Before he passes out, I slap him, the way his mate Nancy slapped me when I made the gorilla noises.

“Come on,” I hiss. “Show me what you’ve got.”

“I don’t want to fight,” Tyler says, backing up.

“Too bad.” I slap him again. “Give me your best shot.”

“No,” he squeals. “I don’t want to.”

I make a fist and jab him in the stomach. It’s not a hard punch, just a taste of things to come. But he doubles over, then drops to his knees and starts crying, hugging himself as if I’d swung a cricket bat into his ribs.

I stare at Tyler uncertainly. I’m not used to this sort of a reaction. It throws me. The others are looking away, clearing their
throats, disgusted and embarrassed at the same time. This is doing more harm to my image than to Tyler’s. Everyone knows he’s soft. But for me to pick a fight with a harmless crybaby…

“Forget about him,” I snap, turning my back on Tyler and looking for another target. I spot a group of Muslim kids standing in a huddle, unaware of any of this, sharing a joke. They’re from the year above ours, big buggers, well able to fight their own corner.

“Let’s do those bastards,” I snarl, looking to my gang for support.

Nobody responds. They’re startled by my sudden mood swing, my thirst for a fight. They’ve seen me fired up before, but not like this.

“What’s wrong?” I sneer. “Frightened?”

“Of course not,” Kray says. “But why don’t we leave it and have a go at them after school instead? We’ll get in trouble if we attack them here.”

He’s right but I can’t pull back now. “Okay, cowards,” I spit. “I’ll do the sods myself.”

I start towards the group. I don’t know if the others will follow once they see that I’m serious. I’ll get hammered to a pulp if they don’t—without backup I won’t stand a chance. But I don’t care. Let them kick the crap out of me. At least I’ll be able to go home to Dad and be sure of a warm welcome. He’ll make me a cup of tea, rub my head, tell me I’m one of his own. He might criticize me for picking a fight I couldn’t win, and tell me I have to be savvier. But he’ll be proud of me. He’ll love my fighting spirit. He’ll love
me
. And right now that’s all in the world that matters.

But I haven’t taken more than three steps when everything goes to hell and all natural fights are forgotten.

Screams ring out loud over the other noises. Everyone stops and stares at the main doors into the gym. They’re hanging open and we can see the corridor beyond. The screams get louder. My eyes widen and my heart beats fast. I instinctively know what this means but I can’t admit it. Nobody can. That’s why we stand like a bunch of dummies, doing nothing.

A boy staggers into the gym. He’s bleeding. Terrified. Moaning. He falls and I see that a chunk has been cut–
bitten
–out of the back of his neck. Blood spurts from the wound. As we gape, more kids spill into the gym. All screaming. Some bleeding. Everyone in shock.

One of the girls looks wild-eyed at the rest of us, as if just noticing we’re there. Gazes at us in horrified silence. Then shrieks hysterically—“
Zombies!
”

SEVENTEEN

I want it to be a joke, some smartarses screwing with the rest of us. I’d be so happy if they were winding us up, I wouldn’t care that I’d been made a fool of. I’d laugh, admit I fell for it, hail them as champion pranksters.

But the blood’s real. The terror. The screams.

And the zombies.

I spot the first of them coming. A boy I don’t recognize. His sweater and shirt are ripped. His stomach has been carved open. Guts ooze from holes as he lurches forward. His eyes are unfocused, his lips caked with blood. He moves stiffly but purposefully.

The undead boy grabs the girl who screamed. Pulls her hair back. Sinks his teeth into her throat. Rips out a strip of flesh and gurgles happily as blood sprays his face.

I’ve seen blood fly in fights, movies and computer games. But never like this. Nothing I’ve ever seen before has prepared me for
this
.

The spell breaks and pandemonium erupts. Everyone’s screaming at once. People run in circles, crash into one another, fall, thrash around on the ground, lash out with their feet and fists.

More zombies stream into the gym, boys, girls, a couple of teachers. They zone in on the living, hunting like wolves. They have a sweet time of it. In all the mayhem, lots of kids try to rush by them. Easy prey. The zombies just reach out and snatch.

I haven’t moved. I’m watching sickly, numbly studying the undead as they feast on their victims. Some of the kids writhe and curse as they’re bitten, moan and weep and beg for mercy. The zombies don’t care. They tear with their fingers and teeth, bite, claw, rip, chew.

“Stop that!” Stuttering Stan roars. He strides forward, blowing his whistle, trying to wave back the zombies. The fool thinks that he can control this, the same way he can control violence on the pitch.

A zombie boy my age butts Stuttering Stan in the chest. As the teacher falls back, winded, the boy sticks his fingers into the adult’s left eye and pokes it out. As Stuttering Stan screams, the boy gobbles the eye. Then he falls on his victim and digs through the hole where the eye should be, burrowing through to Stuttering Stan’s brain.

“Come on!” Trev shouts, grabbing my arm. “We have to get out of here!”

“What?” I blink.

“They’re gonna kill us, B!”

I look at the zombies and shake my head. “Not all of us. There’s a pattern.”