The Dead

Frédérique was smiling at her and rubbing her fingertips together, making a dry rustling sound.

Thank God.

There was a hiss and a rumble as Greg fired up the coach and the cat darted back into the bushes.

‘You arsehole!’ Jack yelled.

Frédérique wailed. ‘She is too scared.’

‘You’ve just got to try and grab her,’ said Jack. ‘We can’t wait. The coach is going to go.’

They heard Greg yelling from the driver’s seat.

‘Get out of the doorway or I’ll kick you out.’

‘Hang on,’ Ed shouted back. ‘They’ve nearly got it.’

‘I can drive with the door open, you know!’

‘Frédérique!’ Jack snapped. ‘You’ve got to do something!’

22

Frédérique could just see Dior’s tail sticking up out of the grass. The poor cat was spooked by the voices, by the noise. If Frédérique had only been left alone to do this by herself she could have got her by now.

How long did she have?

She looked down the road for the first time and her breath caught in her ribs.

The silent mass of adults was almost there. They were bloated by disease, their skin tight, cheekbones massive, lips fat and pulled back from their teeth, as if they’d all had bad plastic surgery. Some of them were completely naked, their sagging flesh swaying from side to side as they staggered onwards.

‘Please, Frédérique.’ The boy, Jack, sounded like he was going to cry.

Frédérique felt awful. She didn’t want to be responsible for anything bad happening.

All right, she told herself. It was just a cat.

Just a cat.

Papa would not have wanted her to die because of it.

She would try to pick Dior up. If she ran off, she would leave her behind. That was the only thing to do. Without thinking any more she slid forward, quickly but smoothly, trying to make no sudden movements. Dior stared at her warily, ready to jump aside. At the last moment Frédérique bent down and made a grab for her.

Dior jumped.

Too late.

Frédérique’s hands closed around her. The cat struggled and kicked, gave a wild meow but she was held fast.

Frédérique ran to Jack who was holding the carrying-case ready.

She stuffed Dior in and Jack closed the gate.

‘Get on the bus!’ Ed shouted. ‘Hurry!’

The coach was moving. Ed leant out and hauled Frédérique aboard. The coach picked up speed. Jack threw the cat box to Ed who caught it neatly and dumped it inside.

‘Come on, Jack!’

Frédérique stood up and watched out of the window.

Jack was sprinting, his feet slapping on the wet tarmac, his clenched teeth bared in pain and desperation. He stretched out his hand. The coach was pulling away from him.

‘Come on!’ Ed shouted.

Someone pushed past Frédérique, the big boy, Bam. He took hold of Ed’s arm.

‘Lean out!’

Ed swung out over the road, fingers plucking at the air. Jack roared and threw himself at Ed who somehow managed to get his fingers round his wrist and pull him on to the step.

The three of them collapsed, Jack panting, Ed and Bam giggling hysterically.

‘That was bloody close,’ Greg snarled. ‘If any of you lot mess me about like that again, I will throw you off this bus and not look back. You got it?’

‘You could have waited.’ Jack’s voice was tight with cold fury.

‘You’re not the only people on this bus,’ Greg spat back at him. ‘And don’t you forget that. I don’t mean me. There’s other kids here. You put them all in danger back there. For a cat! A sodding cat!’

‘Nobody was hurt,’ said Ed, trying to calm the situation down. ‘Nobody was in any real danger.’

‘Sit down and shut up,’ said Greg.

Jack insulted Greg under his breath. Greg realized he’d said something but couldn’t tell what.

‘You’ve been on my case ever since you got on this bus,’ he said, changing up a gear. ‘And I am rapidly begi

‘The feeling’s mutual,’ Jack muttered, and went to sit further down the bus. Frédérique and Bam followed.

Ed watched them go. When it came down to it – Greg was right. Jack had put them all in danger. Ed was shaking uncontrollably. He’d been absolutely terrified and was still experiencing an adrenalin rush. It had taken every last scrap of courage he possessed to stay on that step as the grown-ups marched steadily nearer.

And when the coach had started to drive off …

He took a deep breath and swallowed the bile that had risen in his throat.

Greg swerved to avoid something in the road and Ed nearly fell over. He looked for somewhere to sit. All the younger kids had moved to the front of the coach and were sitting with Liam, as close to Greg as they could get. Despite all that had happened, they still looked to grown-ups to protect them and they found the big, powerful figure of Greg reassuring.

Arthur and Wiki sat across the aisle from Liam, Zohra and her little brother Froggie sat behind them, and, next to Liam, a good head taller than the rest of them, was Justin the nerd.

The next three rows of seats were filled by mad Matt and Archie Bishop and the other kids from the chapel. Ed settled down behind them, across from Kwanele and Chris Marker.

He smiled to himself.

The thing was, he hadn’t left the step, had he? He hadn’t let Greg close the doors. He’d pulled Jack on to the bus. This time he’d saved his friend.

This time he’d done the right thing.

At the front of the coach Arthur was talking as usual. He seemed to have an endless supply of words inside him, just waiting to come pouring out.

‘I don’t think they would have caught up,’ he was saying. ‘Those zombies were slow, not like the ones earlier, at The Fez – they were like superzombies, they were really quick, I wonder why some are faster than others, maybe the young ones aren’t as badly affected by the disease …’

‘I didn’t think zombies could run fast,’ said Froggie, a look of deep concern on his face.

‘Yes, well, technically they’re not zombies,’ said Justin.

‘What d’you mean?’ Froggie asked.

‘I mean they’re not zombies,’ Justin went on. ‘They’re not the living dead.’

‘Yes,’ said Wiki, ‘but a real zombie isn’t really dead either. Not a proper one. A proper zombie is someone who’s been given a drug to make them appear dead, and then they’re revived by the voodoo priest and they have to do his bidding.’

‘Well, they’re not those type of zombies either, then, are they?’ said Justin.

‘No.’

‘So they’re not any type of zombie.’

‘What should we call them, then?’ Arthur asked. ‘We have to call them something. I mean, most of them are grown-ups, we could call them grown-ups because there aren’t any normal grown-ups left, so we’d always know what we were talking about, or we could just call them mothers and fathers, you see like the Scared Kid did? That’s what I think of them as, mothers and fathers, though not my real mother and father, they weren’t zombies.’

‘These ones aren’t zombies, either,’ Justin insisted. ‘That’s what I’ve just been trying to explain.’

‘We could call them ghouls,’ said Wiki. ‘Or demons.’

‘What about ogres?’ Zohra suggested.

‘Or savages,’ said Froggie.

‘We could call them brutes,’ said Wiki.

‘I like zombies best,’ said Arthur.

‘Me too,’ agreed Froggie.

‘But they’re not zombies!’ Justin was getting quite angry.

‘I know they’re not,’ said Arthur. ‘But they act like zombies, and they walk like zombies, except the ones who can run, the fast ones, and they’re stupid like zombies, and they eat people like zombies.’

‘Are they a sort of vampire?’ said Froggie.