The Restless Dead: A Zombie Novel by Jenny Thomson Page A

behind the wheel. The side of his head is missing. His mouth hangs open, and some of his teeth are gone. Even in a city without guns, some people have still managed to get their mitts on them. Knowing what was in store for him, he’d exited life on his own terms, which was fair dues to him, but it left us with one glaring problem.
    We needed the car; we’d have to move him.
    I stand there thinking how things couldn’t possibly get any worse. Then I suck it up, grow a pair of balls, which is more than Mustafa has, and help Scott manhandle the body out of the car.
    It’s not easy because the man weighs a ton, and the arms and legs keep flopping about until we drop him next to the snowman.
    When we’ve finished our gruesome task, although we’re puffing and panting like Turkish weightlifters, I have to ask, “Shouldn’t we bury the poor guy?”
    Scott screws up his face and pitches his axe into the back seat. “We’re in a hurry here, Emma. Besides, he took the coward’s way out and left the rest of us to deal with this shit. Screw him.”
    In all the years I’ve been with Scott I’ve never seen him so callous, but he does have a point.
    He jumps into the driver’s seat. “Let’s go get Fiona.”
    He says it as a rally call.
    I get in the passenger seat and put the baseball bat between my knees. “I’m ready.” I close my door, which sounds as solid as a jail cell slamming shut.
    He turns the key in the ignition. The car engine roars to life. And we’re off, skidding and fishtailing down the icy road.
     
     
     
     

7 THE THINGS WE LOST IN THE APOCALYPSE
     
    Fiona lived in a detached villa on the south side of Glasgow in a smart private estate with about twenty houses. Set well back from the road, there was no reason to go there unless you’re a resident or a visitor. That gave me hope that she'd be safe.
    The BMW ploughed through the snow with ease, but we kept the windows down to air out the coppery odour of blood that still dripped from the instruments and pools of gunge on the floorboards. Here and there we see packs of zombies ganging together, hunting in packs. There was plenty of food for them now, so they didn’t need to chase us in the car. I was sure that would change sometime soon when the supply of food was exhausted. When that happened, we wouldn’t be safe anywhere on the streets.
    When we got to Fiona’s, a few cars were parked in driveways, but there’s nobody about as we get out of the car, our nerves as strung out as new guitar strings as we scanned the area. It didn’t help my rising panic when I spotted big bloodstains on the pavement leading to her house, and had to bite back the image of Fiona being dragged out of her house, terrified, kicking and screaming. Maybe even calling my name. There was no way she’d leave otherwise: she couldn't even open her door for the postman because of her paralysing phobia.
    I got out of the car first, bat clutched in my hand and heart pumping away like I'd run a marathon. Scott joined me, armed with the axe. His jaw was clenched tight like he was ready for anything.
    So we didn’t have to walk through the blood, maybe even Fiona’s blood (I hated myself for thinking it), we headed for the side door. Before we opened the door, we stopped and listened for any sounds that would alert us to danger - moans, shuffling feet, something heavy being dragged along the floor, or animal noises the undead make as they hunt and feed. I didn’t hear anything, but that didn’t help me to relax.
    As quietly as I can, I pull the keys from my pocket. It’s a double lock device, so I insert the first key and turn it until it clicked, followed by the Yale key that I turned until the latch released. I nudged the door open, taking special care not to open it too wide because it creaked. I meant to oil the damn thing; it’s not like Fiona can do it herself.
    Silence hung in the air like a shroud. Usually the telly is blaring away because Fiona loves her daytime