The Restless Dead: A Zombie Novel Read Free Page B

asking me if I’m alright.
    I lie and say I am.
    As if any of us will ever be okay again.
     
     

3 REMAIN INDOORS
     
    We’ve been sitting in the living room for half an hour now, trying to figure out what the hell we should do next. We need to start by finding out what’s happening; are the authorities doing anything to help us, or have they left us to stew? Scott says there should be plans for quarantine, for safe places for the non-infected like us to go.
    “Try the phone again, Emma.”
    “I’ve already tried it a dozen times. All I get is an engaged tone or an automated voice saying, "You cannot be connected, the lines are busy." Or a message to hold on the line and some dreary music they play in shopping centres.
    Through gritted teeth, I say, "If I hear that music one more time I’m going on a killing spree myself.”
    But Scott's insistent. “Try again.”
    I want to hurl the walkabout phone at him.
    The mobile phone networks are down, and we’ve been trying to get hold of family on the landline, but so far we’re out of luck. All over the city, other people are probably in the same boat, sinking in the same stretch of water known as shit creek.
    All across Glasgow we hear sirens from police cars and ambulances and people screaming and wailing.
    As I’m trying the phone again, Scott sits on the couch with his laptop perched on his knee, trying to get online. He has about as much chance of getting a connection as I do of getting someone to answer a phone. But I don’t say that. We have to believe we can make contact with whoever’s in charge so they can tell us where we can go that we’ll be safe.
    I ring Fiona several more times. She doesn’t answer. My chest tightens with dread, a stranglehold on my heart. She’s defenceless without me. She won't survive.
    We’d turned off the telly ten minutes ago, but now we can’t bear to listen to the chaos outside any longer, so we switch it back on. A bad idea as it turns out, because the reality of what’s happening swamps us, and any lingering doubts we have about what’s going on are swept away in a deluge of proof: dead people are really coming back to life and eating people.
    Every TV channel regurgitates the footage of Cameron being devoured as though it’s set to continuous re-run. After I’d seen it a dozen times, it loses it comedic value, especially the part where the British’s leader disappears under a red mist. Abracadabra, the man in charge of the country has no arm, and his gushing blood’s spraying his sycophants in the front row. The screen goes blank for ten seconds, and the whole thing plays out again and again on high definition TV.
    The worst thing we see is a report delivered by Britain Today newsreader Sheila Stuart. We'd already seen it five or six times, and it never fails to freak us out. With her perfectly groomed hair and red carpet frocks, Sheila usually resembles a Hollywood star. Now she has out-of-bed hair and isn’t wearing a scrap of make up. We think she’s been holed up in the studio since the outbreak happened. She’s talking to well-known reporter, Gerry Rae, who’s standing outside the House of Commons, his shoulders hunched against the cold and wearing his trademark black trench coat, belt tied tight over his protruding belly that spoke of far too many liquid lunches.
    Police armed with big guns are visible in the background, and something else we don’t normally see in front of the seat of British democracy: tanks surrounded by soldiers wielding machine guns. There was something on the news earlier about our troops being recalled from Afghanistan and wherever else they were in the world because their country needed them at home.
    Sheila’s lips are visibly thinning with each question she asks. “Do you have any advice for those watching this at home, Gerry?”
    He drags his fingers through his hair. It’s snowing, but he’s not wearing a hat. “Sheila, the authorities are advising people to remain