Undead (9780545473460) by Kirsty McKay

mind that he is dead. There’s nothing behind his eyes — no compassion, no anger, no fear. Any semblance of who he once was has gone, replaced by this stumbling, hungry-looking thing, reaching for me. And the
moaning
. It’s a guttural groaning anchored so deep it sounds like he is trying to bring up oil. Does he have a wife? Kids? Anyone who would recognize him now? How would they feel if they could see him like this?
    Get a grip. Concentrate.
My dad always told me I have fast reactions — that’s what makes me a good skier — and now I’ve got to test them to the max. The driver’s nearly upon me. Just a couple of feet separate us.
    Now!
    I dodge into the seat on my left, throwing a leg over the seats in front, set to scramble past. But the driver isn’t close enough to dodge; he simply sidesteps into the corresponding seat a row farther down, like a well-trained chess piece.
Oh, goody
. I dart back into the aisle, then across to the right-hand side, clambering forward over a row before he can react. For a second I think I’ve made it. Then he lunges at me.
    Without thinking I thrust the ski pole into his chest. It sinks in surprisingly easily with a
clunk
, momentarily pinning him like an indignant beetle. He swipes it away, and his sudden strength is shocking. I let go of the pole and it falls out of reach. He lunges again, spit flying out of his mouth in cloudy, viscous globules. I flatten myself against the window, my back slipping on the pathetic little nylon curtain that serves no purpose whatsoever except to hinder attempted escapes from flesh-eating monsters. As I slide down the window like broken egg, I notice that the ski pole has wedged between my row of seats and the one in front, making a feeble barrier between the bus driver and me. He presses against it, frustrated as he reaches for me, his fingers a few inches from my face. If I die right here, right now, I will be
ashamed
. What a fail. Struck down and eaten by a
bus driver
, for crap’s sake, in Scotland, on a lame school trip. Just as the pole starts to buckle and his fingers clasp my hair, I throw myself over into the seat in front — and roll into the aisle.
    I embrace the floor for a millisecond, willing it to open up and engulf me. “Move!” Alice screams from above.
    I look up. The driver is bearing down on me, teeth gnashing. Alice screams again. Distracted, he straightens and swipes up at the hatch with his good arm.
    It is time to stand up. But as I make to move, something attaches itself to my jacket. My hands scrabble underneath me. My ski pass has caught on something in the floor. I can’t move.
    A slam from above means the hatch is closed. I am on my own. Hey, they held out longer than I’d figured.
    Desperately, I tug at the plastic pass. A silver ring pops up from the rubber floor. I stare at it. I know what that is. I pull on the silver ring with all my might and a trapdoor lifts up, slamming into the driver’s face as he dives down to reach me. A black hole opens up underneath and I slither into it headfirst.
    A thankfully brief fall, and cushioned by something squashy. I’m in the luggage hold, on top of an open suitcase — its lid removed to make the back window barricade.
    It’s dark but there’s a rectangle of light above me. The trapdoor was not hinged; it came off completely before it whacked the driver in the face, and it is only a matter of time before his befuddled brain realizes I am still within reach.
    Scrambling over the suitcases, spilling their contents on to the floor, I make for the doors of the hold. Doors in a hold are not designed for escape from the inside. I bang on the side of the bus with my fist, praying that Smitty will realize and open them up.
    Above me looms the driver, staring blankly into the hole. The noise attracted him. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.
    â€œHey!” I move farther down the bus, through souvenirs