Undead (9780545473460) by Kirsty McKay Page A

and dirty laundry, slapping the doors. “I’m in here! Get me out!”
    A crash behind me tells me I’m no longer alone in the hold. Panic, rising up like cold water through my body, threatens to overwhelm me. Wedging my backside against a suitcase, I kick the door with both legs, then again, and again, and again. In the gloom, the driver begins to swim through the sea of suitcases in my direction.
    I kick again.
    Just as I’m convinced I’m never going to see daylight again, the door opens and light floods into the hold. I roll blindly toward the light and fall with a
crunch
into the snow.
    Smitty stands there, looking down at me. But not for long. A moan erupts from within the hold. He goes to slam the door.
    â€œWait!” I scramble to my feet. “We need to get him out.” I pull Smitty a few feet away from the hold, and the driver emerges. “Keep on your feet. He’s not too fast, but he’s stronger than you think.”
    â€œOi, you soft git!” calls Smitty to the driver, who is finding his feet in the snow. “Pick on someone your own size.”
    The driver stumbles toward us.
    â€œYou distract him while I climb back in,” I babble. Smitty looks confused. “The door is still barricaded. Shut the luggage hold after me and get ready to jump in through the front door.”
    Unbelievably, Smitty does as he is told. He leaps through the snow, arms circling above him like it’s all an elaborate dance routine.
    â€œCome to me! Come to me!” he sings, then bends over, gathers snow into a ball, and throws it into the driver’s blackened face. The driver’s moans are momentarily muffled, but he plows toward Smitty regardless. “Oops!” Smitty cries in mock concern. “Excuse me, mister, I don’t know what came over me.”
    What a maniac. I struggle to keep pace with him as the driver staggers closer. Two lunatics and one monster, galloping through the snow, I don’t think my mother quite envisaged this scenario when she signed the check for the school trip.
    As the driver gets within a few feet of us, I dodge around him and run flat out to the bus. Throwing myself back into that dark confined space goes against every instinct, but I have to get on board and open the door. I can only hope that Smitty doesn’t get too carried away with driver-taunting to remember to shut the hold after me.
    Back in the aisle, I fix the trapdoor shut over the hole in the floor: better safe than sorry. Then I run to the front door, swiftly remove the snowboard, and press the lever to open.
    In the parking lot, Smitty’s driver-baiting is getting more and more dangerous. He lunges at the driver, then quickly spins away before the driver can grab him.
    â€œSmitty! Close the hold!” I shout, a fist of fear and frustration rising in my chest. He ignores me, obviously finding himself too funny for words.
    If you want something done right . . . I rush back out into the snow and slam the doors to the hold shut. Attracted by the noise, the driver does his head-spinning trick — starting to get old now — and begins stumbling toward the bus.
    â€œSmitty!” I shout. “Snap out of it!”
    I bound back to the door to find Alice at the top of the steps, hand on the lever.
    â€œI was waiting for you to come back,” she says guiltily. “I wouldn’t have shut them yet.” She peers out at Smitty, who is still running rings around the driver. “That’ll end in tears.”
    I turn, hands on hips, ready to shout at Smitty again, when something causes all the breath to leave my body. Smitty slips on the snow and skids, right into the legs of the driver, who topples over on top of him.
    â€œSmitty!” I scream, momentarily fixed to the spot, unable to move or to tear my eyes away from the pile of writhing limbs making deadly snow angels on the ground. Before I know what I’m doing, I’ve grabbed