Zombies: The Recent Dead by Paula Guran

again.”
    “You know the phone’s dodgy, Janey.”
    “You shot at someone. We should try the police.”
    “ Someone ? But you saw, you—“
    “Someone,” Jack’s Mum whispered softly. “Robbers, I expect, come to steal our Jackie’s things.” She ruffled his hair but Jack could not find a smile to give her.
    “I heard them picking at the putty,” he said. “Robbers would just smash the window. Least, they do in The Bill . And there’s nothing else making a noise, like the fox in the woods. I always hear the fox before I go to sleep, but I haven’t heard it tonight. Dad!”
    His father turned and stared at him, his face unreadable.
    “Did you shoot someone, Dad?”
    His father shook his head. He began to smile as he pulled Jack’s face into his neck, but the expression was grotesque, like one of those old gargoyles Jack had seen on churches when they were in France last year. “Of course not, Jack. I fired into the air.”
    But he had not fired into the air, Jack knew. He had leaned out and aimed down. Jack could not help but imagine something squirming on the ground even now, its blood running into the gravel alongside the house, screams of pain impossible because it had no jaw left to open—
    “Come on,” his dad said, “our room for now, son.”
    “Didn’t you try the mobile?” Jack asked suddenly, but the look on his mother’s face made him wish he hadn’t.
    “That’s not working at all.”
    “I expect the batteries have run out,” he said wisely.
    “I expect.”
    His father carried him across the creaking landing and into their bedroom, a place of comfort. He dropped him gently onto the bed, and as he stood the telephone on the bedside table rang.
    “I’ll get it!” Jack shouted, leaping across the bed.
    “Son—”
    He answered in the polite manner he had been taught: “Hello, Jack Haines, how may I help you?” It’s the middle of the night , he thought . Who rings in the middle of the night? What am I going to hear? Do I really want to hear it, whatever it is?
    “Hey, Jackie,” a voice said, masked with crackles and pauses and strange, electronic groans. “Jackie . . . the town . . . dangerous . . . get to Tewton . . . Jackie? Jackie? Ja . . . ?”
    “Mandy,” he said, talking both to her and his parents. “It’s Mandy!”
    His mother took the receiver from his hand. “Mandy? You there?” She held it to her ear for a few seconds, then glanced at Jack. “No one there,” she said. “Line’s dead. It did that earlier.” She turned to his dad and offered the receiver, but he moved to the window and shaded his eyes so he could see out.
    “She said we should go to Tewton,” Jack said, trying to recall her exact words, afraid that if he did he would also remember the strange way she had spoken. Mandy never called him Jackie. “She said it was safe there.”
    “It’s safe here,” his dad said without turning around. He was holding the shotgun again and Jack wanted to believe him, wanted to feel secure.
    His mum stood and moved to the window. “What’s that?” Jack heard her mutter.
    “Fire.”
    “A fire?”
    His father turned and tried to smile, but it seemed to hurt. “A bonfire,” he said, “over on the other side of the valley.”
    “At night? A bonfire in the middle of the night?” Jack asked.
    His parents said nothing. His mother came back to the bed and held him, and his father remained at the window.
    “It was Mandy,” Jack said.
    His mother shrugged. “I didn’t hear anyone.”
    He tried to move away from her but she held him tight, and he thought it was for her own comfort as much as his. He didn’t like how his mum and dad sometimes talked about Mandy. He liked even less the way they often seemed to forget about her. He was old enough to know some stuff had happened—he could remember the shouting, the screaming, the punching on the last day Mandy had been with them—but he was not really old enough to realize exactly