Year of the Zombie (Book 8): Scratch by David Moody Page B

Ten year old boys –
even her own son – were a complete enigma to her. She didn’t understand the
way they worked. ‘For Christ’s sake, Ben,’ she yelled, ‘how many times do I
have to tell you? The zip’s at the other end.’
    He was leaning right
against the canvas again, his full weight pushing down on the tent, threatening
to collapse it on top of her.
    ‘I’m here, Mum,’ he
said, and she looked up fast. Ben, Jenny and Holly, all in the tent with their
faces buried in books and magazines and phones.
    ‘Shit.’
    She got up fast, still
struggling to get out of her bedding in the tight confines of this three-man
tent occupied by four. As she sat up, the back end of the tent crashed down.
Whoever was outside had fallen on top of it.
    ‘Oi!’ she yelled,
furious. ‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing?’
    She manhandled the kids
out of the way and grabbed her sandals, then fumbled with the zip and burst out
into the light.
    ‘For Christ’s sake, what
the hell’s going on out here?’
    She’d seen the woman
elsewhere on the campsite with her husband last night. Elderly. Silver-haired.
Prim and proper. Professional campers, the pair of them. One of those couples
with all the right kit and a gadget for everything. They’d watched from a
distance (and hadn’t lifted a finger to help) as Jody had struggled to get her
tent erected and cook a half-decent meal on a less than adequate stove.
    Except the woman looked
completely different this morning.
    She slowly disentangled
herself from the wreckage of the tent like she didn’t understand. Her eyes were
glassy and unfocused and yet, when she turned her head, there was absolutely no
question she was looking straight at Jody. A string of thick, blood-stained
drool dribbled from the corner of her mouth, and when she managed to fee
herself from what was left of the tent, Jody saw that she was barely
half-dressed. Her towelling dressing-gown flapped open, revealing unsupported,
sagging breasts. She had a dirty scratch running between them, roughly in line
with her breastbone; a rough-raw, bloody groove like she’d been mauled by a
one-clawed bear.
    ‘Oh my God, are you
okay?’ Jody asked, but there was no response. ‘Do you need help?’
    The woman walked over
the tent and over the kids. They howled in protest from inside, but she paid
them no attention. She was coming straight for Jody now, clear vicious intent
in her unclear eyes. Jody backed away but the woman kept on coming, held back
momentarily when one foot became entangled with a guy rope.
    Her head clicked and
ticked. Random, repeated movements. Alien-looking. She picked up her stilted,
awkward pace, only to stumble again, tripping over the sleeping bag Jody had
inadvertently dragged outside with her.
    ‘Back off, love,’ she
warned, and when the woman picked herself up this time, Jody clouted her around
the side of the head with a camping gas cylinder.
    Got to get out of here.
    Jody reached into the
front of the collapsed tent and felt around inside for the kids, yanking them
out into the daylight one by one, blinking against the brightness. She pushed
them towards the car. ‘We’re leaving.’
    Holly, clutching a limp
rag doll, stopped just short of the old woman sprawled on the grass. She peered
down at her, feet together like she’d pulled up on the very edge of a hundred
metre drop.
    The woman began to move
again. Fistful of fingers crawling like a crab.
    Jody grabbed Holly’s arm
and thrust her towards her older brother. ‘Get your sisters into the car, Ben,’
she told him.
    ‘Did you do that?’ he
asked, unable to take his eyes off the battered creature on the ground.
    ‘Get your sisters into
the car!’ she screamed at him again, and this time he didn’t argue.
    Jody checked her
pockets.
    Fuck. Pyjama trousers.
No pockets.
    Fuck. No keys.
    She reached back into
the tent and felt around in the darkness for her handbag. Bedding, books, toys,
discarded clothes . . . no bag.