Sue Walker Rise of the Zompires

RISE OF THE ZOMPIRES

prologue

Sometimes, especially in the summer when the days are long and we have to stay in our coffins for hours, I wake up. Even through my tightly-sealed casket and the walls of the cellar, I think I can hear kids playing outside. I imagine them running around on the grass, kicking balls, squealing and squinting against the brightness of the sun. There’s the sound of splashing too, I’m sure of it, and I see boys and girls in my head: a group of them, paddling down at the wharf. They’re on the ramp where the boats go in, throwing water at one another to cool off, or just to make each other laugh. It’s at times like that I want to throw open the lid of my coffin and run outside. It would almost be worth it: two, maybe three seconds of the sun on my skin again before I explode. It’d be quick, at least; not hurt that much. Would it?

chapter 1

I used to be claustrophobic, when I was alive.

But now, looking down at the coffin that has become my home, I can hardly remember that feeling of panic that would have made me properly freak just at the thought of spending all day stuck inside it.

The room it’s in is big enough: a damp cellar below one of those tall Georgian houses in Redcliffe Parade that looks over the wharf. The cellar has a little broken window at street level, covered with dusty cobwebs, and it smells of mushrooms and mould, but would once have been quite

posh. It’s abandoned now, apart from some invading ivy, a pile of old carpet and three coffins: Vlad’s, Agnes Lovelace’s and mine.

My coffin’s secondhand. Weird, right? The coffin at my funeral was one of those cardboard, eco-friendly numbers; great for the environment but not entirely practical for long-term use. The one I have now isn’t my style – I’m not big on fancy-shmancy carved scrolls and red velvet linings – but it’s excellent quality. Who used it before me? I’ve no idea; all I need to know is that it’s sun-tight, and I’m sure of that. But I do miss it so much – the sun, I mean; I’d really love to see daylight again.

My memory of what happened was hazy at first, like waking up in the middle of a dream that suddenly fades. But to put it simply, one minute I was at my parents’ Halloween party, dressed as a vampire, and the next I was a real one. I woke up lying in a coffin with my mentor, Vlad, smiling down at me. All new vampires get a mentor. I thought then that I was still at the party, seeing as he was dressed like a vampire too, but he explained how I’d been dead for about a week – a week! – I’d had a funeral and everything (burial, not cremation, obvs.)

I started remembering things then. On the night of the party I’d sneaked out to the garden shed with some other kids who were going to smoke fags. I’d just turned twelve and didn’t want to be left out, but it turns out the slogan “smoking is bad for your health” is completely right, in more ways than one. I hadn’t even had the chance to take a puff (if I had then I wouldn’t have died with stupid plastic fangs still in my mouth) when someone rammed into me and I felt a sudden jab in my neck. Next thing I know I’m being told that my parents thought I was accidentally impaled by a garden fork and that I have to swap pizzas, chips and ice cream for blood, blood and blood. Vlad gave me a scroll listing the Seven Undeadly Sins:

1. Thou shalt not enter a property uninvited. 2. Thou shalt not bite any of the following: Transylvanian Scent Hounds; Carpathian Squirrels; Humans of no fixed abode; Assistants to other vampires (‘Familiars’). 3. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s coffin. 4. Thou shalt not tease Werewolves. This includes:

Throwing sticks; Faking full moons; Howling. 5. Thou shalt not associate with real bats. 6. Thou shalt not cross salt water, except at high or low tide. 7. Thou shalt not roam in the light of day.

Number seven’s the worst, the hardest to accept. I mean, who wants to hang out with bats or bite squirrels anyway? I used to want to stay up late, when I was alive. But when you can only go out at night, it’s boring. Dark, cold and boring. I hate it.

When I told Vlad I was fed up of never going out in the day he said, ‘You really shouldn’t think like that. You must embrace what you’ve become.’ But I don’t want to; I don’t even want to give it a gentle pat, let alone embrace it. ‘There’s bound to be a period of adjustment,’ he went on. ‘But let us consider all the positives: you’re immortal now, dear boy, and just look at your exquisite attire…’ He paused then to wave a hand dramatically, pointing out the cheap nylon cape that’s tied around my shoulders and the plastic glow-in-the-dark fangs that just about fit over my real ones. ‘… What better costume to die in? You were clearly destined to be a vampire; just like me.’

Vlad – real name Cecil Bunning – died in a vampire costume too. He was bitten at a party after a day of filming “Dracula’s Revenge” in 1929. He’s a proper drama queen. But the difference is that he wants to be a vampire,

and I don’t. And at least his outfit’s decent quality, not pound shop tat. Why didn’t I just dress in black for the Halloween party? At least then I’d look cool for the evermore, not like Count Dracula’s mini-me. I’m always ditching the cape – and the fangs – but every evening, when I wake up, the cape’s wrapped neatly back around my chest and my gums are sore. Those poxy plastic fangs are a terrible fit. And I get static shocks from wearing nylon all the time. No gliding across carpets looking sinister for me; I’d just end up sparking.

The thought of having the cape and plastic fangs for all time isn’t a good one; but now I’m immortal – bar a stake through the heart or going out in the sun – I guess I’ll have to get used to them. Just like I have to get used to never seeing my family or sunlight again. I don’t know if I can do that though. It’s been nearly a year already and I’m finding it hard; really hard.

Being friends with Fizzy Patel helps. He’s twelve, like me – although he became a vampire in 1972, so really he’s – well – much older. I never was much good at maths. I met him near the corner shop that his dad used to own, after he’d raided the store room for a fresh supply of strawberry bootlaces. He was concentrating hard, tying them in bundles around the handlebars of his bike, when I bumped into him – literally. He flashed his fangs, looking pretty grumpy, which at least let me know straight away that he was a vampire too.

My reason for being there was simple: I was hanging round the street where I used to live, wondering if I should go and knock on the door of my parents’ house. I did that quite a lot to start with, cos I missed them. I still do. I even miss my sister, Mia, who’d finally stopped treating me as just her annoying little brother and seemed to not mind me hanging out with her so much – sometimes. And I miss Fudge, our dog; he never minded hanging out with me. I just didn’t know what to do for the best.

‘Don’t do it,’ Fizzy said when I explained. ‘They’ll freak out, then you’ll freak out; you might even end up biting them. It’ll get messy.’

‘I wouldn’t bite them,’ I said. ‘I don’t actually like biting anyone.’ I looked away, embarrassed.

‘Here, have one of these,’ Fizzy said, holding out a strawberry lace.

‘I can eat those?’

‘Yeah; ’course. This brand’s coloured with cochineal.’ Fizzy smiled smugly.

I frowned at him. ‘What?’

‘Cochineal – beetles’ blood. You don’t have to drink human blood – you know, if you really don’t want to. Anything with some sort of blood in it’s OK.’

‘Yeah, well, I’ve been living on mice and voles actually. I’m always hungry. It’s rubbish.’ I didn’t dare tell Vlad that, but it was different with someone my own age – or sort of my own age.

He laughed. ‘Seriously? How d’you catch them?’

‘I don’t. I wait around in the churchyard, hoping an owl’ll drop something it’s caught. Or I frighten a cat when it’s playing with a mouse – as they do.’

Fizzy shrugged, still grinning. ‘Well, whatever does it for you.’

‘These are much nicer though,’ I said, holding out my half-chewed lace. The sugar tasted so good.

‘Yeah,’ Fizzy replied. ‘Fizzy cola bottles used to be my favourite, when I lived here.’ He looked up at the darkened windows above the pebble-dashed shop front and sighed. ‘That’s how I got my nickname: Fizzy.’ He looked back at me and smiled again. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said, holding out his hand for me to shake as he threw one leg over his bike.

I remember gawping at his massive denim flares, though he did look kind of retro cool. His bike though, a Raleigh Chopper, MK2, looked fit for the scrapheap. There were splits and rips in the saddle where bits of foam poked out all over the place. Fifty years of anyone’s bum will have that effect on a seat, I guess.

‘You ride in the dark then,’ I said as Fizzy sat on his bike, hands wrapped around the sugar-coated, strawberry lace handlebars.

‘Yeah, ’course,’ he said. ‘Haven’t got much choice, have I?’

‘No, but – you don’t mind?’

‘I mind, but I can’t do anything about it.’ Fizzy shrugged and pushed off unsteadily with a metallic clunk. ‘See ya round – er…’

‘Colin,’ I shouted after him.

‘Colin?’ He turned back, grinning under the streetlights, and almost lost his balance.

‘Yeah. After my uncle.’

‘OK,’ he said, turning back to where he was heading and lifting a hand to wave. ‘Well, see ya later Col!’

I see him quite a lot now; we’ve become good friends. He gets around a lot more than me, of course, having a bike. Fizzy really loves that bike and spends most nights scooting round the city on it; even if that does mean him falling off all the time. The bike has gears, but it’s mostly stuck in third, which means he sometimes comes to a dead stop on the hills.

Like Mia, I used to like running – cross country, mainly; I was no good at sprinting like her, but was fast enough long distance. I tried jogging round the city a few times, but even with streetlights there are dark corners and trip hazards – the tree roots pushing up through the pavement along the Bedminster side of the river, for one.

Fizzy suggested I try turning into a bat; it’s meant to be a perk of being a vampire, after all. I thought that would be great and got really excited about the idea of flying everywhere. Sadly, my first experience wasn’t a good one, and now it’s put me right off. The actual flying was OK, though I did feel a bit dizzy to start with and made the mistake of eating a moth, which was disgusting: like an old, dusty leaf with a gooey middle. Gross. It was when I changed back into the real me that the problem started: fwingers. Fizzy hadn’t told me about fwingers.

‘Ah, yeah,’ he said, screwing up his nose and then looking away when I complained that my arms had gone numb and my fingers felt like spongy sausages. ‘That does happen for a while when you’re new to the bat thing.’

Young Adult

‘These future authors have shown such courage, tenacity and dedication in the face of less than ideal circumstances, and have produced some of the finest, and most hope-filled work I’ve had the honour to nurture throughout my time on the MA in Writing for Young People.’ dr joanna nadin

Jack Banfield (He/Him)

Jack Banfield is a cat-taming, dog-training, niece-sitting extraordinaire who writes when no other distraction presents itself or if Arsenal are losing.

A lapsed outdoorsman, Jack worked in the breathtaking mountains of Canada, New Zealand and Switzerland teaching anyone who would let him how to ski until his body rebelled and he returned to the UK to begin his education. After redoing his A-levels he was accepted onto Bath Spa’s Creative Writing course, which he graduated from with a First Class degree.

He then applied and was accepted onto Bath Spa’s Master’s course in Writing For Young People, where he continued to find new and interesting ways to procrastinate until deadlines loomed above him like the Cliffs of Insanity.

He lives in Somerset where he is grudgingly being forced to learn the ‘laws’ of rugby and shares his home with his fiance, Border Collie, and cantankerous black cat, Albus Dumblepaws.

jackbanfield380@gmail.com / @Jack_writes

About Confessions of a Geezer’s Apprentice

When 17-year-old Hadley Wilson picks up the wrong bag after a car accident, he thinks all his money troubles long gone. But the money belongs to someone, and he wants it back. Soon Hadley is dragged into the murky world of organised crime, diamond geezers and dodgy coppers. When the stakes become dangerously high, Hadley must decide who to trust, and how much. Once he’s in, can he ever really be out?