Undead (9780545473460) by Kirsty McKay Page B

the snowboard on the steps and I’m rushing toward the pileup.
    Smitty’s head and body are completely obscured by the driver, but his legs stick out beyond the driver’s legs, kicking frantically as the driver tries to bite him. I raise the snowboard and smack it on the back of the driver’s head. It doesn’t even make him pause. Snowboards are not built to knock someone out. Right now, that is a major design flaw. I ram the end of the board into the driver’s side, trying to shove him off Smitty, who gets a hand free. I ram again, and Smitty pushes, and suddenly we’ve rolled him to one side for a second. Just long enough for me to remember the dangerous part of the snowboard and how it can be used. I lift the board up high above my head and with a superhuman surge of fear and desperation, bring the metal edge down on the driver’s exposed neck.
    There it sticks, stuck in his throat, like an awkward question.
    The driver stops moving, a look of dull surprise frozen on his face. Smitty scrambles to his feet, and the driver drops onto his back, the board still sticking halfway through his neck.
    I crouch down, hands over my mouth.
    â€œAwesome job, Roberta.” Smitty stands up and brushes himself down. “Although I totally had him.”
    â€œMy name’s not Roberta,” I whisper through my fingers, the cold of the snow seeping up from the seat of my leggings and into my core.
    â€œWhatever you say.” Smitty hunkers down next to me and smiles, his eyes twinkling in a way that might have made my cheeks warm if I hadn’t been staring past him, at the thing, the thing that I killed. “Not bad going for a ski bunny.”
    I almost feel the movement before I see it. The driver’s mouth opens, an arm shoots out, and fingers catch the edge of my jacket. I fling myself backward, a scream falling out of my mouth as I tumble into the snow, then quickly scramble up on my elbows, ready to kick, to claw, to fight . . .
    In a single movement Smitty stands, raises his leg, and drops his big black boot down hard on the snowboard. There is a crack and a gurgle, and the driver’s head is liberated from his body.
    â€œOh my god, what did you do?” Alice is behind us.
    â€œThat was incredible!” Pete enthuses. “Best use for a snowboard I’ve seen all week!”
    â€œNobody is going to believe this when I post it!” Alice is holding a phone up. She’s been filming the whole thing.
    I feel the sting of bile in the back of my throat as I tear my eyes away from the head. I half expect Smitty to pick it up by its hair, or kick it into the air and shout “Goal!” but surprisingly he stands somberly, almost in respect, gazing down at the driver and his head. Then the moment is gone.
    He gently pulls me up, puts a strong arm around my shoulders, and together we walk toward the bus.
    â€œWe’re going to need a new board for the door.”

We leave the body in the snow. What else are we supposed to do?
    Somehow Pete manages to drive the bus on fumes, out of the parking lot and down the road that leads past the gas station and to the café.
    I feel empty. Should I be crying, or crazying it up? I killed the bus driver — or Smitty did. Or neither of us did, because he was already dead. This is way worse than Mr. Taylor. I killed a person I had been trying to heal a few hours before. I’ve heard of post-traumatic stress disorder — is that what I should be feeling? I sit, silent and strangely unafraid, as Pete teeters the bus down the hill, Smitty shouting directions, Alice watching for movement through the binoculars. I feel a catch in my throat, like some kind of weird, flipped-out pride. We’re still alive.
    The bus creeps past the gas station at a respectful distance. The black smoke has almost gone. I glance at the ground for blackened bodies, but there are none. Maybe they disintegrated in the explosion?
    Likewise,