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

expect to hear screams, until I remember zombies don’t scream.
    By now, Scott has opened the rear door. Lumps of singed dead flesh pelt me as I duck my head and throw myself onto the back seat. Scott jumps in behind me, but he has to kick a grasping zombie in the face to get the door closed. I grab Scott’s arm trying to steady myself. We’re both shaking.
    The driver revs up the engine and we’re off, hitting more of those bastards as though they’re bowling pins. Unlike us they don’t jump out of the way of moving cars. They’ve got no fear or common sense.
    As we reverse out of the cul-de-sac, tires screeching on the asphalt, there’s a sound like snapping tree branches. Then I realise what the noise really is: bones being snapped like twigs, skulls being cracked like eggshells, and I’m glad we’re in this rugged vehicle.
    “Ye ha,” the driver roars like a cowboy on a rodeo ride. 
    Once we’re out on the open road and my heart rate’s almost returned to normal, I gaze across at our saviour. He’s about our age and has ginger blonde hair and a bushy beard that must have taken months to grow.
    As he turns to face us, his lips twitch at the corners of his mouth. “I’m Doyle, by the way.” His accent is pure Glaswegian, and his skin is milk bottle pale. A copy of the Koran rests on the dashboard next to a bottle of Irn Bru. “Bit of a tricky situation you had back there.”
    Scott’s still holding the Stanley knife. He must be tormented by the thought of how close he’d come to killing me with it. But I know now he’ll never let those dead bastards have me, and I love him even more for it.
    He slides the razor edge back inside the handle. It locks in with a click that has a certain ring of finality.
    Doyle takes one hand off the wheel and holds it out for us to shake. We lean over to oblige, and that’s when we see why he didn’t unlock the passenger door for us. There’s a lumpy vest on the front seat, and strapped to it is a device with a keypad and a blinking green light.
    I think I know what it is, and although my throat is seizing up, I have to ask, “Is that a bomb?”
    Scott grips my arm as if he’s ready to bail out of the car and drag me with him.
    Doyle nods. “Aye, it is. But its no activated.”
    I’m thinking that puts my mind at ease, but I don’t say it because, if he’s a mad suicide bomber, I don’t want to piss him off.
    He points at the device. “See that wee light there? That has to be at solid red for it to blow. Weird isn’t it how red means stop when its traffic lights, but go when it’s a bomb. Kind of ironic.”
    Scott is somehow managing to stay calm. “That’s reassuring.” He takes off his backpack so he can get comfortable.
    Inside my head I’m screaming, “Bomb. Get out!” and wondering what the hell we’ve done to have all this shit rain down on us. Did I smash too many mirrors? Walk under too many ladders? Trod on a black cat?
    Doyle must know we’re freaking out. “By the way, the doors are locked, guys, as a wee precaution. To keep us all safe, you understand. I can stop and let you out if you want, but I wouldn’t recommend it. Not unless you want to get eaten by one of those crazy bastards.”
    He pauses to turn up the heater. “Picked the wrang day for a walk, eh?”
    We don’t argue with him about that. 
    “What’s happening anyway?” he asks. “I’ve seen some scary shit in this city, but I’ve never seen bastards who jump you and then try and fucking eat you. Do you know I saw two guys chewing off another man’s face? In the city centre? I mean, what the hell was that all about? ” He leans towards us. “When did the whole of Glasgow turn into Psychoville? I was on my way to the airport and there were soldiers waving machine guns about like Rambo. They stopped me at a roadblock, said there’d been some incident that got the airport closed. Didn’t even ask to see my driving license or search the car. In too much of a hurry to