Skulduggery Pleasant: Books 1 - 12. Derek Landy

       here is a very particular process one goes through to become a zombie. Scapegrace didn’t go through it because he was raised from the dead by magic, but after a little bit of trial and error he finally figured out what the process entailed. The person he was recruiting needed to be bitten while still alive, so that the infection had time to spread through the system. Scapegrace was hesitant to bite at first, as he was worried how it might look. He had initially planned to just go after attractive females, but quickly realised that this wouldn’t be too time-efficient.

       His first successful recruitment had been in Phoenix Park. The recruit was a middle-aged man out for a stroll. Scapegrace had waited until there was no one else around and then slipped out from his hiding place. He leaped on the man and dragged him into the bushes, where he bit him. The man tried struggling, but the infection was surprisingly fast acting, and within sixty seconds, the man was dead. After a few moments, however, his eyes opened again and he was looking up at Scapegrace.

       “Am I in heaven?” he had asked.

       “Don’t be stupid,” Scapegrace snapped.

       “Sorry,” the man said and got up.

       Scapegrace had looked at his first recruit. A shabby specimen if ever there was one, who seemed to wear a permanently dazed expression on his face.

       “What’s your name?” Scapegrace asked.

       “Gerald,” said the man.

       Scapegrace pondered. Gerald the zombie just didn’t have that fear-inducing ring to it. “I’m going to call you Thrasher,” he said.

       Thrasher blinked. “All right,” he said uncertainly.

       Scapegrace nodded. Thrasher was a good name. Thrasher would be his right-hand man in the new zombie army he was building for his Master.

       “Come with me, Thrasher,” Scapegrace said, leading the way and liking the sound of it.

       He had done a lot more recruiting that afternoon. In Phoenix Park alone he recruited Slasher, Crasher, Dasher and Basher, then they all took Crasher’s van and he recruited Slicer, Dicer, Wrecker and Boiler. Boiler signified the end of Scapegrace’s new name strategy, and from then on he just called them Zombie One and Zombie Two, things like that. He had more on his mind than thinking up stupid names for his zombies.

       He had brought them back to his Master’s castle, and the first problem to arise was that none of the other zombies seemed to respect Thrasher’s authority. It was too late to demote him now though. Such an act would be seen as weak leadership. The recruits needed to see Scapegrace as infallible, much like a pope or a politician. Scapegrace couldn’t admit that appointing Thrasher as his second-in-command had been a mistake, and instead hoped that Thrasher’s head would fall off or something.

       The second problem was that Scapegrace was starting to smell, but he was confident that new plans he had set in motion would take care of it. There might even be a cream out there that would help. He had taken to wearing car fresheners around his neck, tucked beneath his shirt.

       Scapegrace walked the stone corridors, heading for the room which housed his new zombie army. He put on a fierce expression, opened the door and walked in.

       They were chatting among themselves, telling jokes and laughing. Thrasher was standing at the edge, trying to laugh along with them, but seemed unsettlingly happy to see Scapegrace when he walked in. He went up to him and stood to attention.

       “Good evening, sir!” he said. Idiot. “We’re all here, sir!”

       “Of course you’re all here,” Scapegrace responded, annoyed.

       “Sir, one of the men was asking about food, sir.”

       Scapegrace made a mental note not to refer to the zombies as an army again. Thrasher was letting it go to his head and it wasn’t very scary at all. Horde would be better. His zombie horde. Much better.

       “What about food?” Scapegrace grumbled.

       “He was wondering what it is we eat, sir.”

       “We don’t eat anything,” Scapegrace answered. “We’re sustained by magic. We don’t need food.”

       “I shall inform the men, sir!” Thrasher turned on his heel and faced the zombies. “May I have your attention!” he shouted.

       A zombie from the back said, “Go to hell, Gerald.”

       Thrasher looked like he was about to cry. Scapegrace was now seriously regretting his recruitment process.

       “We don’t eat anything,” Thrasher said, trying to keep a brave face while his lower lip quivered. The zombie horde stopped talking among themselves and looked at Scapegrace.

       “We don’t eat?” Slicer asked. “What, nothing?”

       “Not even brains?” Zombie Eleven asked.

       “Nothing!” Scapegrace told them. “Under no circumstances are you to eat! Not even one tiny little bite! Is that understood?”

      They nodded sullenly and Scapegrace turned to the door. Before he’d even reached it, they started bickering among themselves about what would taste better, brains or flesh. These were not the slavering, mindless creatures of the undead he had hoped for. These were not fearsome in the slightest. His zombies bickered. Scapegrace left the room quickly, closing the door lest the sound of bickering drift to his Master’s ears. He hurried back the way he had come, trying his best not to panic.

       He didn’t want to disappoint his Master. He had been so looking forward to presenting his zombie horde and getting the recognition he sought, the praise he longed for. Maybe even a hug. But it wasn’t going to happen. His Master would take one look at the horde and recognise instantly what a petty bunch of failures they were, and what a grotesque disappointment Scapegrace himself was.

       Scapegrace reached the small room that served as his personal quarters, hearing the low gentle hum. He opened the rotten door and quickly stepped in, closing it behind him. One advantage of the new recruits was that their credit cards could still be used, and Scapegrace had ordered Thrasher to buy him a place to rest.

       “Like a coffin?” Thrasher had asked, wide-eyed and stupid-looking. Scapegrace had hit him, told him not to ask insolent questions, to just do what he was told, and Thrasher had scurried off, nearly crying yet again. But now that Scapegrace thought of it, he quite liked the idea of having a coffin of sorts. He reckoned it was actually pretty nifty. He hadn’t told his Master about it, and he did feel terrible about that, but he needed this. He didn’t want his body to fall apart, and until he figured out a way to stop any decomposition, the giant freezer would just have to do.

       Scapegrace opened the lid and climbed in. He had to curl up to fit, but apart from that it was pretty comfortable. He closed the lid and darkness consumed him. Comforted by the darkness and the hum of power, he lay there and thought about all the ways he could kill the girl.