The Zombie Stone

by K. G. Campbell

  “Perhaps,” speculated Marvell, “they were black pearls. Could be valuable, I reckon. At least worth a lot more than this piece of garbage.” She thumbed at the coughing engine. “I hope we weren’t cheated.”

  “I don’t know,” said August of the motor. “It’s not that pretty, but it seems to work okay. Besides, not even black pearls could be worth more to me than getting hold of that Zombie Stone.”

  Marvell took the tiller as the houseboat joined a parade of larger vessels filing into Pirates’ Pier Lock. The narrow channel was flanked by soaring concrete walls, and before them, August saw closed steel gates of such immensity that they might have marked the entrance to Atlantis. This impression was enhanced by the rivulets of water trickling from the joints.

  The boy couldn’t help but gulp, imagining the fishy world beyond, towering far above the houseboat and contained only by the man-made portal.

  Equally enormous gates behind them closed, and ever so slowly, the walls appeared to grow shorter and shorter. But August understood that the craft was in fact rising on the water slowly filling the lock; a sort of elevator for boats, carrying them up and down between waterways high and low.

  The great gates had also shrunk, and as a new world appeared beyond them, they finally eased open, releasing the marine traffic onto the broad brown expanse of the Continental River.

  August gasped at the vastness of the uninterrupted space; he had never been anywhere so flat and open, with such a large sky unobstructed by trees and vegetation. The waterway was busy with traffic, and, despite sticking close to shore, the houseboat smacked up and down on choppy waters. Holding on tightly, August gazed up in wonder at the passing oil tankers and seafaring vessels that literally dwarfed Marvell’s ramshackle craft.

  Bridges slid by overhead, impossibly long and slender. Both riverbanks were lined with wharfs and piers, vast floating banks of tethered barges, the giant gray drums and flaming chimneys of refineries, and, now and then, the creamy white columns of elegant mansions from days gone by.

  The factories grew larger, the green spaces less frequent, the bridges more numerous. Eventually the tiny vessel was surrounded by warehouses, train depots, and, beyond them, the jumbled roofs of a great city.

  The clouds blushed with sunset light as Marvell steered her home into the shadow of a low-slung pier where a monumental ship was moored.

  This was not a liner designed to cross oceans, such as the Queen Mary or the Titanic. Rather, the vessel was of the category known as a paddleboat, designed to navigate the quieter waters of a mighty river. It was still, however, the length of a city block, a hulking great thing with four skinny black smokestacks standing side by side at either end. But the lowest of its three decks sat merely feet above the water’s surface, and the entire affair was encased by delicate galleries of white wrought iron, leaving one with the impression of a giant floating summerhouse.

  On the side, large letters in a font that reminded August of the circus identified the vessel as the Delta Duchess.

  As they skirted the stern, August gazed openmouthed at the looming red paddle wheel, as enormous as might be expected to propel such a vast vessel. He was still speculating on the size of each horizontal blade (four feet deep by thirty feet wide), when Marvell killed the engine and permitted the houseboat’s pontoon to gently collide with the nearby embankment formed from great boulders.

  August leaped to shore, followed by Claudette, but Marvell made no move to follow.

  “Aren’t you coming?” inquired August. Marvell shook her head.

  “Better stay with the boat,” she explained. “Might get stolen or impounded by the Harbor Police. And we’ll need a way out of here.” She pointed to the shadowy forest of short piles supporting the pier. “Not many vessels will fit under that,” she observed. “But this one will. I’ll hide the boat and wait for you in there. Here, take my boatswain’s whistle.”

  Madame Marvell showed August how to hold the gently curving brass tube to his lips and open and close his fingers over the punctured sphere at one end to produce a piercing, nautical-sounding squeal.

  “I can hear that thing from half a mile away,” she explained. “When you need fetching, just blow.”

  August nodded, pocketed the contraption, and looked up the embankment.

  “I’m not sure where to go,” he said. “My only map was in my knapsack, which is now at the bottom of Channel Fifteen B or possibly in a giant alligator’s stomach. How will I find Aunt Orchid’s house?”

  “Tourist maps,” explained Marvell. “They’re everywhere: stacked outside restaurants, in boxes attached to lampposts.” She thumbed over her shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll find some up there, on the pier.”

  * * *

  * * *

  The volume of people in Croissant City made Pepperville seem positively sleepy (which of course it was, but it was the busiest place that August had ever been). It felt to the boy as if the entire population of the nation was flooding the city’s streets.

  The locals were also distinctly more colorful than those back in Hurricane County. In fact, it seemed that many had been invited to some giant costume party, for their clothing was, to say the least, theatrical.

  Many were dressed as jesters or skeletons or angels or devils. Many others, though not identifiable as any particular character, sported eccentric accessories like feather boas or fuzzy antennae or sequined sunglasses or bizarre masks.

  Almost all were heavily draped with strings of shiny beads in every color of the rainbow.

  Dazed, unnerved, and overwhelmed by the festive throngs, August clung to a lamppost with Claudette, both DuPonts jostled and bumped by the passing pedestrians. August glanced up at the street signs above them, then down at the document in his free hand, a map, entitled “Croissant City’s Old Quarter.”

  “Looks like we’re at this intersection.” Releasing the post, August attempted to place his finger on the paper, but the repeated impact of clumsy passersby made this impossible. “But I’m not sure which corner. Funeral Street is way over here. I think we need to go this way. No, wait, this way.”

  Ushering Claudette before him, the boy attempted to cross the street in his chosen direction. But such an undertaking was like fording a torrential river, for the road was jam-packed, not with vehicles but people, all headed in the same direction.

  Claudette attempted to force her way north through the east-flowing crowd. But, eventually, even the zombie’s unusual strength was no match for the sheer volume of bodies, and the DuPonts found themselves helplessly swept along with the boisterous throng.

  August gazed at the strange new environment surrounding him. The Old Quarter’s many streets were far narrower than Pepperville’s single thoroughfare. Its buildings were taller, slimmer, and more densely packed. Some were faced with exposed brick, many more with cheerfully colored stucco: yellow ochre, salmon pink, mint green.

  Most sported painted wooden shutters and were fronted by an airy gallery of wrought ironwork so elaborate and delicate, it resembled black spun sugar.

  Above, the balconies were festooned with bunting, flags, and tinsel of purple and gold. Below, from the ceilings of the shady arcades, dangled baskets of geraniums and ferns and numerous store signs of various shape and design. The sidewalks were peppered with obstacles in the form of fire hydrants, potted palms, and elegant lampposts with ornate bases and bulbs enclosed in old-fashioned lanterns.

  From almost every direction, bursting from the open doors of numerous establishments, came the infectious, foot-tapping strains of live music in a distinctive style: a swishy, rhythmic yet unpredictable blend of trumpets, pianos, and drum brushes. The melodic, aromatic, exotic, historic place made August think of matadors and gangsters and banana trees.

  And it was clearly a popular destination; the pedestrian traffic was so dense that August’s feet lost contact with
the ground. Wedged between solid bodies, however, the boy remained upright and in motion. He looked up at the person into whose shoulder he was pressed: a large, bald man whose face was concealed by a mask of gold braid and crimson feathers.

  “Why,” yelled August above the din, “are there so many people?”

  “You kidding, buddy?” responded the man. “It’s Carnival!” With a bellowing “Woot, woot!” he shook a bottle of champagne and removed his thumb from the neck, releasing foamy spray over the heads of those around him, who whooped with equal enthusiasm, as if being soaked by sparkling beverage was a fine thing. “Dang!” observed the man. “Where’d all these butterflies come from?”

  Jammed directly in front of them, a girl whose beaded mask was crowned by silk roses was blowing through a plastic wand, producing flurries of small bubbles. Claudette’s eyes swiveled with fascination and she grabbed at the soapy orbs with the outstretched fingers of her severed arm.

  “Fun, huh?” said the girl. “Here, girl, have some of your own.” She thrust a colorful plastic bottle at the zombie, who licked it inquisitively.

  “Where is everyone going?” August asked of the champagne-wielding man.

  “Dude!” The man clearly considered August a total dummy. “To the concert of cou—”

  But August did not hear the end of the sentence, for he was at that moment struck forcefully from behind. Punched free from the press of bodies, he abruptly found his nose inches from the asphalt.

  The boy glimpsed his map as it was swept away and shredded by a moving forest of shins. Shoe soles were smashing the ground inches from his fingers. He received a painful kick in the ribs. He struggled to rise, but knees and calves battered him from every direction. He fell again, curling up and covering his head.

  “Well, this is a fine thing,” he thought. “Of all the fates I imagined for myself in sleepy Locust Hole, I never imagined I’d wind up trampled to death.”

  But such an untimely end did not await our hero.

  Instead, something suddenly grabbed August’s jacket collar, and he was dragged forcefully upward, coming abruptly face to face with his rescuer.

  Zombies, it seemed, were good for some things.

  As August clung to Claudette, struggling to remain upright, he saw the buildings that rose on either side give way to a leafy canopy suspended above towering trees. He observed tall iron railings sail by, and the hard street beneath his feet gave way to a soft and spongy surface. Suddenly the press of humanity loosened up and the children found themselves deposited on a lawn. August realized that the throng, previously compressed by the narrow streets, was now dispersing into a spacious park.

  Above all, towering into the dusky skies, were the three white spires of an elegant cathedral. Beneath those, August could see the tented ceiling of an event stage and the brilliant glare of spotlights mounted on a scaffold. But the shadowy, milling crowd blocked any view the children might have had of the stage itself. August heard the harsh yet muffled tones of a presenter speaking into a microphone, and when the audience suddenly roared, Claudette jumped and grunted her disapproval.

  People streamed toward the attraction, revealing behind them a large public statue where the park’s paths met. The looming bronze effigy, some fifteen feet high, depicted a man that to August looked vaguely familiar. He was a pirate, to be precise, who struck a swashbuckling pose, one foot planted on a banded, domed chest whose top could not quite close due to the treasure busting from within.

  “Come on!” August pulled Claudette behind him. “We’ll be able to see from up there.” They scampered across the lawn to clamber up the statue’s stepped base. As he climbed past gold lettering etched deeply into the polished granite, August read:

  “Jacques LeSalt Park is named for the infamous privateer, who, at this very spot, met his end upon the gallows. Though tried and hung as a criminal, he was a folk hero to many. It is said by some that the pirate’s tortured spirit still roams the local swamps, searching for a lost treasure trove of gold doubloons.”

  Whatever his fate, the pirate’s oversized bronze knee provided the perfect perch. The spot was clearly favored by pigeons but granted August and Claudette an unobstructed view to the stage, over the sea of people.

  “Most of y’all know me,” the presenter was saying with enthusiastic cheer. “But for those who don’t, the name is Cyril Saint-Cyr, local historian, tour guide, business owner, and general personality.”

  The man was rather shorter than the stand before him and gripped it with both fists, straining his neck upward to be heard through the microphone. His rosy little face, grinning from ear to ear, sat above an enormous green bow tie and was crowned by a near vertical tuft of white hair. He made August think of one of those decorative plaster garden gnomes—a garden gnome in a seersucker suit.

  “And don’t forget, folks,” Cyril Saint-Cyr urged, waggling a rosy little finger, “that tonight’s festivities are brought to you by Saint-Cyr’s Wax Museum, the famous and infamous, large as life in wonderful wax! It’s just around the corner. We open at nine a.m. But I won’t keep you any longer, folks, because I know why y’all are here. So, come on now, let’s give a big old Croissant City Carnival welcome to the one, the only…Yuko Yukiyama!”

  Claudette managed to grab August’s jacket as he nearly slid off Jacques LeSalt’s pigeon-spattered pants.

  “Did you hear that, Claudette?” August, eyes nearly popping out of his face, was forced to scream to be heard above the roaring crowd. “Yuko Yukiyama!” He grabbed Claudette’s biceps (the one that remained attached to the rest of her) and gave her a little shake. “Yuko Yukiyama! Stella Starz’s favorite musician: the one-eyed xylophonist famed almost as much for her striking eye patches as for her virtuoso talent. I can’t believe it. Oh, my Lord,” he cried, flattening his palm against his heart. “There she is!”

  An extraordinary figure teetered onto the stage in perilously high platform boots, eliciting a deafening, ecstatic welcome from the audience.

  Yuko Yukiyama had electric-blue hair, wound tightly into conical knots that protruded from her skull like pointy horns. She wore a very high-collared gown, constructed from what appeared to be Bubble Wrap, and a brilliantly sparkling heart-shaped eye patch of candy-pink sequins. The musician turned in circles, her arms akimbo. From each fist extended a slender stick topped by a ball tightly wound with thin yarn.

  “Those,” August informed Claudette, “are called mallets. I know, because Stella Starz says that Yuko Yukiyama creates more magic with her mallets than a wizard does with his wand.”

  Cyril Saint-Cyr was meanwhile pressing his palms downward, attempting to quiet the howling crowd.

  “I know! I know y’all are more riled up than hornets in a soccer ball,” he cried as the roaring petered out. “But just wait, folks, till y’all hear this. For one very special performance, Yuko will require”—he paused for dramatic effect—“a volunteer!” Another roar accompanied an instant forest of hands stretching desperately into the air.

  Saint-Cyr smiled impishly. “But, given that there are so many of y’all, this very special honor will be awarded”—he peered around with a palm leveled above his eyebrows—“to the fan who has put the most effort into their costume tonight.”

  The event host turned and swished his hand at some invisible party in the scaffolding. From there, a blinding spotlight popped on and proceeded to scan the hysterical audience, briefly highlighting all the jesters and skeletons, angels and devils, and numerous nightmarish masks sprouting beaks or antlers or feathers.

  The brilliant, bluish circle of light swept swiftly across the statue of Jacques LeSalt, paused, then abruptly jerked back.

  There, it stopped decisively, dramatically illuminating a ragged, startled figure perched on the statue’s knee: Claudette DuPont.

  August pushed and shoved his way past heavy, closely packedbodies an
d began to weary of this obstructive—unhelpful even—crowd.

  He jumped frequently, grabbing shoulders to gain more height, desperately trying to keep sight of Claudette, who was being passed, literally like a rag doll, across the audience and toward the stage.

  August wondered if his undead great-great-aunt was in fact enjoying the whole thing, for a goofy grin was plastered across her pasty face as it bobbed about.

  On the rickety steps to the podium, the boy tripped over something soft but solid and was not entirely surprised, given the physical commotion, to find himself retrieving Claudette’s severed arm. He was scrambling with it onto the stage, just as Saint-Cyr ushered Claudette to the microphone and asked her name.

  “It’s Claudette,” gasped August, stumbling forward and speaking so closely into the mic that he caused a cringeworthy screech of feedback. “She doesn’t speak English; she’s from…” He paused, wincing at what he was about to say. “Lapland.”

  The boy shook his head just a little, recalling the previous terrible conclusion to this old lie; surely, second time around, it was even more transparent.

  “Well, we congratulate this young Arctic person,” gushed Cyril Saint-Cyr, who appeared entirely unsuspicious of August’s explanation or of Claudette’s origin, “on such dedication to her Carnival costume. So realistic. So deliciously unpleasant. The dismembered limb.” He flapped his hands at the arm cradled in August’s own. “Very clever. However do you do it? And you, young man, with the butterflies. Are they battery operated? A hologram? Whatever the case, it’s a nifty trick. Now tell us, are you two in some way related?”

  “Um. Well. Actually, sir,” August explained, “I’m her great-great-nephew.”